Awful MarySue: The Unsold Tales
by Tolkanonms
Summary: A tale of the Fellowship: Aragorn, Legolas, Boromir, Gandalf, Gimli, Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin…and one other. Also Elrond, Glorfindel, Celeborn, Galadriel, Celebrimbor, Haldir, Thranduil, Faramir and more. Arwen, however, is curiously absent.
1. Prologue

****

Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales

****

Author: Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.com

****

Rating: R (which could mean restricted or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective) for the tale a whole, although the actual rating will vary by chapter.

****

Summary: The real story of the Fellowship: Aragorn, Legolas, Boromir, Gandalf, Gimli, Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippinand one other. Also Elrond, Glorfindel, Celeborn, Galadriel, Haldir, Thranduil and more. (Arwen, however, is curiously absent.) This tale aspires to be the Mary-Sue to end all Mary-Sues. Can there be a higher calling?

****

Disclaimer: This is a work of parody. No disrespect is meant to J.R.R. Tolkien or Peter Jackson, whose genius in writing and bringing to life Middle-earth and its peoples I admire greatly. Anyone or anything you recognize from M-E likely belongs to the Storymaker, the Moviemaker and/or their respective heirs and organizations. The rest of it, including the Sue herself, is mine, my own, my precious. I make no profit from this work.

****

Feedback: Comments welcome -- tolkanonms@yahoo.com. Make them constructive if you can, but nasty is OK, if you must -- I've got my marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate bars ready, so flame away! S'more, anyone?

****

Archiving: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

****

Genesis: This story was inspired by two marvelous works. The first is Soledad's "The Joys of a Beard," which showed me the rich possibilities of the Mary-Sue genre. She has chosen to emulate the earnest seriousness of the typical Mary-Sue story, with the added challenge of using material from JRRT's earlier drafts of what eventually became LOTR. Read this and other fine tales listed on her author profile page on fanfiction.net.

I can rarely restrain myself from lapsing into parody, however. So an evil glint came to my eye when I read the Mary-Sue "litmus test" for LOTR fanfic authors, written by Gil Shalos. (See the LOTR section of Gil's website -- www.gilshalos.0catch.com -- where you'll also find an intriguing tale of a soldier of Gondor.) In this "test," I saw a challenge: could I actually write a story that incorporated every cliché Gil listed? The result is the story that follows. 

Let me be clear: Gil graciously granted me permission to use the "list" as a blueprint for my story, and Soledad encouraged me to write it. But neither of them is in any way responsible for the outcome. For that, you have only me to blame.

As to the M-S genre, while I am indulging in some serious teasing here, I actually support the right of any Tolkien fanfiction author to write whatever s/he wishes, including tales of Mary-Sue and her kin. Even if a story stinks to Valinor and back, Tolkien's realm is neither defiled nor diminished by the existence of that story, which nobody is forced to read, after all. Writing is an act of creativity, and no matter how the product turns out, I think creative expression is a good thing in and of itself. The only people who could possibly harm Tolkien's legacy are the folks who feel a need to burn his books, ban them from public libraries or rant against them in religious settings. Narrow-mindedness is the real threat, not poor old Mary-Sue.

****

References: As is often true of LOTR Mary-Sue tales nowadays, this story is movie-verse. Thus, while I have drawn on my general knowledge of Tolkien's work to fill in some details, my primary reference materials besides the theatrical release of the FOTR film were:  
- The transcript of FOTR developed by the folks at Council-of-Elrond - check out their website -- www.council-of-elrond.com.  
- Jude Fisher (2001). _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings Visual Companion_. Houghton-Mifflin.  
- Brian Sibley (2001). _The Lord of the Rings Official Movie Guide_. Houghton-Mifflin.

****

Author's Notes: I failed the test. I shall post this tale, then diminish and go into the West and remain Anon M-S.

Please note that the "Elvish" spoken in this story is fake. In fact, you may notice it looks suspiciously like English having a very post-modern sort of day. Translations of Elvish and any other non-English language follow in brackets [ ].

Please note the location of the exit nearest you and turn off all cellphones and beepers.

And now, on with the show.

o o o o o o o o o o

****

Prologue

__

Me arm pressed on  
[The world is changing.]

__

Han Ming none  
[I feel it in the water.]

__

Ham on the chibi  
[I feel it in the Earth.]

__

Aha! noshed an egg with it.  
[I smell it in the air.]

Much that once was, is lost. For none now live who remember it.

And much that should have been lostwas not.

__

Morning, eh, utility day!  
[Darkness comes.]

o o o o o o o o o o

It began with the forging of the great rings.

__

Three for the Elves with lovely hair,  
For the Eldar, Firstborn, always share.  
Seven for the Dwarves - one to each,  
For sharing to Dwarves you cannot teach.  
To the Secondborn, the Race of Men,  
Who all fancy power, were given nine

Or was it ten?

But I am getting ahead of myself. Or perhaps behind. I no longer know for certain. All that was once clear fades into mist as I search my memories for the tales given into my care, tales I must tell 'ere I depart from this place, never more to walk among its hills and derry dols. 

We begin in the distant past. Well, fairly far back. Certainly not recent history, even for an Elf, which you are not.

But there were, once upon a time, those who *were* Elves - still are, I suppose, if they weren't slain by the swords of battle or the arrows of love. And there were Men as well, all of whom are most certainly dead by now, even the ones who weren't dead back then.

And those Elves and Men formed a great alliance. The Last Alliance, they called it, although I should think Elrond must have regretted that choice in his later days, considering the events at Helm's Deep in the Second Jacksonian Age. But once again, I look ahead, or at least less far behind, so let us return to the times further back, to the beginning of the First Jacksonian Age, also known as the end of the Second Age of Arda. For it is there - or here - that my tale begins.

Ah yes! My tale

The Last Alliance of Men and Elves fought bravely to free Middle-earth from the evil armies of Mordor. Orcs they were, foul minions of Sauron, the corrupted wizard who sought to rule all of Middle-earth through the One Ring, which he had forged in secret in the volcanic fires of Mount Doom.

Gil-Galad, High King of the Elves, and Elendil, King of Men, led their forces onto the battlefield. Orc blood flowed black like oil slicks across the barren plains, mixing with and tainting the red blood spilled from the veins of Men and Elves alike. The battle was hard fought, as such things ever are, but the tide was turning in favor of the forces of Light.

Then, at the very moment when the Alliance gained the upper hand, the Dark Lord himself strode onto the battlefield. Evil both pure and foul seethed in the roiling cauldron that was the heart of darkness beating within Sauron's chest. With the One Ring glowing its fiery menace on his armored hand, his swung his mace, flinging Elves and Men aside by the dozen, as an ill-tempered child sweeps his toy soldiers away in a fit of pique. Neither Man nor Elf could stand before his onslaught. And when Gil-Galad fell, it seemed all hope must be abandoned.

But the courage of Men should not be underestimated. Nor should their foolishness. Elendil raised his sword, Narsil, intending to strike down the Dark Lord. Sauron swatted him into the side of the mountain like a pesky fly, where he died in a crumpled heap.

Not to be outdone by his father's idiocy, Isildur, the heir-apparent, grabbed for his very recently deceased father's sword. Which Sauron promptly stomped upon, breaking it into shards.

Still, Isildur was nothing if not persistent (a trait that would soon get him, and later all of Middle-earth, into a good deal of trouble). He managed to use the bit of blade still attached to the hilt of Narsil to slice off Sauron's finger, and the One Ring along with it.

Sauron collapsed inward and exploded outward in a great volley of sound and a rush of wind and an explosion of dark light. It was all quite magnificent in its own strange way. Evil, it seemed, had met its match.

Unfortunately, it was a match made in the dark places. Isildur took up the One Ring, marveling at the power radiating from its depths as light danced over its silky surface. He stood there on the slopes of Mount Doom, oblivious to the broken, bloodied bodies of the Kings of Elves and Men nearby, his gaze riveted on the shiny band, until his trance was shattered by a ringing voice whose urgency summoned his soul back up from the depths of the treacherous golden circle in his hand.

"Isildur! Follow me!"

Startled back into awareness of his surroundings, Isildur looked up to see a figure in Elven armor already scrambling up the mountainside.

"Isildur! Hurry!" the Elf called over one shoulder.

The Man who would be King followed quickly. The route was steep and rough, but at last, they reached their destination, a path leading from the side of the mountain into its flaming core. The Elf hurried to the end of the causeway, which jutted out over a belching pool of molten rock.

"Isildur! Cast it into the fire!"

Isildur took a step, then paused. He stared at the Elf, whose hair was whipped about by the fierce updrafts of sulphurous fumes from the boiling lava below. He saw anguish in the eyes, heard pleading in the voice. How lovely are these Elves, he thought. So very lovely. 'Tis a pity to see such beauty marred by fear and worry. He glanced down again at the Ring in his hand.

And that glance was the undoing of Isildur, and of all of Middle-earth. For at that moment, he perceived in the golden band the possibility of possessing such beauty for himself and his line down through the Ages to come. Why not? he asked himself. Why should the Firstborn alone have grace, strength, wisdom, immortality? His inner voice whispered to him - or was it the voice of another? - telling him of the power of the Ring to give him all he desired.

"Isildur!"

The Elf's voice intruded again. Desperation sang through its tones.

Ha! Their kind do not wish us to have such gifts, the whisper said. They would keep us weak.

He raised his eyes once more to the figure before him. His lips drew back in a feral snarl of a grin as his hand snapped shut around the Ring.

"No!"

He whirled and fled the mountain, leaving the other staring after him in horrified silence. 

Shoulders slumped in utter despair, the cloaked figure slowly turned to contemplate the flaming pit below.

"I have failed."

There was but a momentary flare as the plunging body burst into flame. A wisp of vapor rose to drift out the opening in the side of the mountain.

(To be continued)


	2. 1 A Mysterious Stranger

****

Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales

****

Author: Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.com

****

Rating: G for this chapter because Glorfindel is in it and everybody keeps their pants on, although some do end up losing their shirts. The tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean restricted or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).

****

Disclaimer: See the Prologue.

****

Feedback: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

****

Archiving: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

****

Chapter 1 - A Mysterious Stranger

You have returned? You wish to hear more? Very well then, pass me a slice of that apple, and I shall bend your ear a bit longer. Perhaps I shall also endeavor to be more brief, as we have a very long way to travel before we see the end of the deeds herein described, and you have yet to meet someone of great importance to the story.

So, where was I? Ah yes. The story as it unfolded after Mount Doom was not a pretty one. The Ring betrayed Isildur. But then, you knew it would, didn't you? He died face-down in a river, stuck full of Orc arrows like a human pincushion. Tragic, really. But he brought it on himself, not tossing the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom when he ought to have done.

And so the Ring was lost to all knowledge for more than two thousand years.

As for Sauron, he had not truly died. But then, you knew that, too. However, he was without corporeal existence -- "sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."(1) Well, sans almost everything. Actually, he had one eye, the Great Eye that floated at the top of the uppermost tower of Barad-dûr in the land of Mordor, looking out upon all it could survey, searching always for the One Ring. But he was certainly not up and walking about just yet.

After those thousands of years had passed, a shadow began to move across the land once again. And the Ring stirred in the waters, ready to seek its old master. It made its way into the hands of the strange creature, Gollum, and thence to one Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit or Halfling of the Shire. After some cajoling by a peculiar, but kindly wizard, Gandalf the Grey, Bilbo passed the Ring on to his nephew, Frodo Baggins, before heading off to stay with the Elves, fine folk whom we will meet later.

Now, friends, let me suggest to you that, should your uncle leave you a ring, and should a most peculiar friend of his warn you to "keep it secret, keep it safe," perhaps it would be best to dispose of that ring as quickly as you can, lest you find yourself walking the path taken by Frodo's furry little feet. But I am getting ahead of myself again.

Frodo now had a ring, a ring that was, in fact, *the* Ring, the One Ring. And after spending many hours in the bowels of the library of Minas Tirith, nearly setting the parchment or his own beard on fire several times while trying to read by the naked flame of a candle, Gandalf confirmed this fact. He hurried back to Frodo's home and sent Frodo and his gardener, Samwise Gamgee, off to wait for him in the sad excuse for a pigsty known as the town of Bree. Meanwhile, Gandalf rode with great haste to consult the leader of his order, one Saruman the White, a wizard said to be both wise and powerful. 

Sadly, friends, Saruman was also now in league with the Dark Lord. And when Gandalf refused to join their merry band, staffs of power were drawn, blows struck and magic wielded. Gandalf nearly bit the grass, as they say in the Eastern realms. But we shall see him alive and well again shortly -- never fear! -- when we meet the Elves.

Meanwhile, our little Hobbit lads were barely out of town before they got themselves into mischief, first with two friends, Merry and Pippin, and then with nine Black Riders, who were most certainly not their friends. These Ringwraiths, the Nazgûl, were nine damned souls who had once been Kings of Men, but who upon receiving the nine Rings gifted to Men fell into Shadow, neither living nor dead, forever doomed to serve Sauron in his quest for the One Ring.

What's that you say? I spoke of ten rings before? Well, perhaps there were ten, after all. But there were only nine Kings of Men, I assure you.

Now where was I? Ah, the Black Riders. Well, the short, but doughty quartet managed to give the Wraiths the slip and made their way to the Inn of the Prancing Pony to wait for Gandalf. When Pippin let slip Frodo's real name, Frodo slipped on the wet floor and fell. The Ring tumbled upward out of his hand, then down again, slipping onto his outstretched finger. And at that moment, Frodo became invisible, drawing a bit of attention, as you might well imagine.

He and his friends were quickly and forcibly taken under the protection of a Man known as Strider, a Ranger, one of the Dúnedain, Men who slink about the countryside and rarely bathe. Who, of course, loaded up a pony and led them out into the countryside, where none of them bathed for some time. Where were they bound, you ask? Why, to Rivendell to meet the Elves, of course.

And so, with all those little bothersome details out of the way, we at last we find ourselves getting to the real start of our story. So, if you'll refresh my drink, I'll tell you the tale as I heard it from those who witnessed these events with their very own eyes and ears long, long ago. Well, some time back anyway. Not recently, not at all. Certainly before any of you were born, at any rate. Now settle down and listen carefully.

o o o o o o o o o o

As night approached, Strider paused and pointed out a curious feature looming above the scrub and hillocks ahead.

"This was the great watchtower of Amon Sûl," said the Man. "We shall rest there tonight."

When they'd climbed to a sheltered ledge, Strider handed out short swords to the four and left to scout the area. Darkness fell, and the Hobbits, being Hobbits and thus having short legs and large appetites, settled down to rest and eat, which of course included lighting a fire and frying bacon.

Now it seems Strider noticed neither the light from the fire nor the smell of bacon as he roamed the flats looking for signs of danger. For when the first shrieks of the Nazgûl reached the Hobbits' ears, he was nowhere to be seen.

Thus, our young Hobbits found themselves alone, staring up at the five unholy creatures bearing down upon them with long swords drawn, ready to skewer anyone or anything that came between them and the Ring. Despite the brave stand the Halflings made, the short swords were useless in their untrained hands, and Merry, Pippin and Sam were quickly tossed aside, leaving Frodo, who had fallen, scrabbling backwards on the ground facing certain death.

Fortunately, Strider had also failed to notice that someone besides the Wraiths had been following them, a bright shadow flitting among the trees and rocks since they'd left Bree. And now, as the leader of the Nazgûl drew his dagger and reached for the Ring, a slender figure leapt between the Wraith and his intended victim, knocking the blade from his skeletal hand and driving him away from the helpless Halfling.

A strong voice rang out: "Back, you foul creature of darkness! I fought on these stones when you wore still the pale flesh of Men instead of black shrouds of death over your feeble bones. And I say you shall not have the Ring while I draw breath!"

With that, the cloaked figure lunged at the Witch-King. Swords clashed as Frodo scrambled to join his Halfling comrades cowering in the corner. A blurred form of flowing light whirled around the dark Wraith, matching him blow for blow with a blade of gleaming metal. The Hobbits watched in wonder as the figure feinted and parried with an expertise rarely seen in all the world. They did not even notice at first when Strider arrived and launched himself into battle with the other four Nazgûl.

The mysterious figure did see Strider, however, and began to maneuver the Witch-King back toward the center of the watchtower floor. Standing together now, the Hobbits' defenders struck blow after blow, yet the Nazgûl held their ground. 

How long the stalemate might have held, none can say, for just then, the stranger grabbed a fallen branch from the stone and cried out in a strange tongue words that made the Hobbits' skin tingle. The wood burst into flame at one end. Their unknown ally wasted no time wielding the fiery club to good end and set three of the Wraiths alight, causing them to leap off the tower and vanish into the night once again.

But Strider was beginning to tire. A loose pebble cost him his footing, and he slipped and dropped his sword, giving the Wraith nearest him -- none other than the Witch-King himself -- an opening. The Black Rider shrieked his joy and raised his own blade, ready to plunge it through the Ranger's heart.

Frodo screamed, "Strider! No!" and leapt to his feet, the other Hobbits right behind him.

But the bright stranger was quicker. Tossing the burning brand at the fourth Nazgûl, the figure threw itself between the descending blade and the Ranger's chest. Frodo could only watch in horror as the stranger took through one shoulder the sword meant for Strider and collapsed.

The Ranger rolled away to quickly chase off the Wraith leader with the flaming branch. After checking that all the Nazgûl had indeed fled, he returned to tend to the one who had saved not only his life, but the lives of the others, including the Ringbearer whom he had been sent to guard.

He knelt down, eyes searching for the sword, but found only the hilt remained. The blade had turned to dust and blown away. The figure on the ground moaned softly, and Strider grimaced.

"Alas, 'twas a morgul blade. 'Tis beyond my skill to heal. This brave one must have Elvish medicine."

So saying, he heaved the stranger over his shoulder, earning himself another quiet moan. The Hobbits scurried to collect their weapons and other belongings and to light torches from the burning branch.

"Make haste, my friends! Time is short for this noble warrior."

They hurried as quickly as they might through the murky woods beyond Amon Sûl. Yet the Ringwraiths pursued them still in the darkness. When the small company paused for a moment's rest, Strider checked the pulse of the stranger and frowned.

"How is he, Strider?" Sam asked.

"Not well, my friend. The morgul poison is carrying our nameless benefactor toward the shadow world, to become a wraith like them."

Sam shuddered, but remained silent, petting the pony, whom he'd named Bill, on the nose.

Strider suddenly looked up again. "Sam, you're a gardener. Do you know the athelas plant? Kingsfoil?"

"Aye, 'tis a weed," Sam replied.

Handing the Hobbit a torch, the Ranger said, "Seek for it. Perchance it may help to slow the poison. Hurry!"

And so Strider and Sam each went out alone into the dark woods, well-lit by their torches, leaving the unconscious stranger and the other three Hobbits, including the Ringbearer, unguarded while Ringwraiths prowled nearby, shrieking now and again as was their wont.

Yet our story does not end here. For moments later, a tall, lean, muscular Elf with flowing, golden hair and pale, glowing skin arrived on a mighty horse of purest white. He leapt off his mount soundlessly and knelt beside the injured figure.

He frowned with worry, then, seeing the Hobbits peering at him fearfully, smiled and said, "Fear not, Half-pints. I am Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. Which in these days and these lands is actually just me, but the title gets me good seats at all the feasts, so I keep it. Oh, and I am also the seneschal of Elrond, Lord of Imladris, and am sent here to aid you."

Strider and Sam, drawn by the light emanating from the golden Elf, which the Ringwraiths had not yet noticed, arrived just as he finished speaking. Glorfindel rose fluidly to his full height and patted Strider on the head.

"Worry not, young Estel! I shall see to the precious one. You lead the Halfwits to Imladris. But stay sharp! I've seen five Ringwraiths around here, and where there's five, there's bound to be nine. Keep your eyes peeled! _Not marring eh, Estel!_" [Farewell, Estel!]

And with that, he scooped up the limp body of their unknown rescuer and settled it onto the magnificent horse's back, then swung up himself. With a whisper and a tap of his heels, he turned the horse and vanished rapidly into the night.

The Hobbits all stood silently gaping at each other, not sure what they'd witnessed, as the Elf had spoken to Strider in Cinderon, the everyday, yet melodious Elvish tongue.

Sam it was who first found his own tongue and burst out in a less-than-melodious shriek: "What's he doing? Those things are still out there and still after Master Frodo's ring!"

Strider shrugged his shoulders and said, " Gentlemen, we do not stop again until we reach Rivendell. I suggest you collect your belongings and make ready to march."

And so they made their way to Rivendell, known in the Elvish tongue as Imladris. They had no further encounters with the Ringwraiths because the latter were otherwise occupied.

o o o o o o o o o o

More specifically, the Nazgûl were in pursuit of Glorfindel and his passenger.

As daylight broke and Glorfindel broke out of the forest onto the wide open plains nestled somewhere in the rugged mountains surrounding Rivendell, the Nine swarmed 'round him trying to snatch the bundle he guarded so fiercely.

He leaned forward slightly and called to his horse, whose name was Asfaloth: "_No row gleam, Asfaloth, no row gleam_!" [Faster, Asfaloth, faster!]

The powerful creature beneath him put forth an extra burst of speed, pulling a few lengths ahead of the Wraiths and their coal-black steeds. And so they fled across the vast plains, light chased by shadows, and were suddenly back in the mountains at the edge of the Bruinen, the mighty river that guarded the entrance to Imladris. Glorfindel's horse quickly picked its way across the ford, but the Wraiths' horses whinnied and hesitated, not wishing to set foot in the magical waters.

When he was safely on the other side, Glorfindel paused to look back at the Nazgûl. Their leader was gesturing and appeared to be speaking, although one could not be sure, as they seemed to have no true faces under their deep hoods. The Elf Lord leaned forward a bit and shouted. "I fear that even with my most excellent Elven hearing, I cannot make out a word you are saying. Speak up -- it is not without reason that this river is named Loudwater!"

The Nazgûl leader tried again, but to no avail. The rushing waters carried away his sepulchral whisper of a voice like the wilted leaves of autumn.

Glorfindel scowled. "Nay, 'tis useless! You must sign your meaning!" And as he spoke, he gesticulated to show that he could not hear over the water's roar and that the Witch-King was to use his metal-clad hands to signal his words.

And for the next hour or so, the Wraith and the Elf struggled to make their threats and counter-threats known each to the other through gestures and pantomime. The challenge was such that Glorfindel found it necessary to lay his passenger down on the riverbank so as to free both his hands.

Scant progress was made, however, and the Witch-King grew impatient. As the Wraith mimed, Glorfindel sounded the words to himself one by one: "'Givepresent.' Ah, yes, I see: 'Give me a present.' That's an odd demand. Why should I want to give His Royal Foulness a gift? Oh no, wait -- not 'present' -- 'thing wrapped up.' What in Arda does he mean?"

Then comprehension dawned: "He wants me to hand over my precious cargo." The horse snorted and the golden Elf seconded his noble equine companion's indignation. "Indeed, Asfaloth, I think not!"

Then, turning back to face across the water, he raised his arms and his voice and, using ancient words of magic, he called down a galloping herd of water horses hauling behind them a wall of floodwater that washed the Nazgûl and their dark mounts downstream.

"Much better!" he declared. He knelt to check on the stranger, who was having some difficulty breathing. "By Elbereth!" he exclaimed, "you seem to have gotten a bit chilled lying there on the river stones. Best we get you warmed up again, eh?" He waved his hands and chanted more words in Enya, the ancient, musical language of the Elves.(2) A golden light surrounded the Elf, and at his touch, the figure on the ground moaned softly, then slipped into an easy sleep. The light faded away, and Glorfindel smiled.

Once both passengers were aboard again, the Elf's faithful steed made good time, and soon Glorfindel was hurrying up the stairs leading into the Last Homely House, bearing the mysterious stranger in his arms.

(To be continued)

o o o o o o o o o o

Notes:  


(1) A quotation from "As You Like It," a comedy penned by the post-Numenórian playwright, William Shakespeare.

(2) No disrespect intended toward the musician named Enya or to those who enjoy her music -- I happen to like some of it myself.


	3. 2 Mysterious Still, and Stranger, Too

****

Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales

****

Author: Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.com

****

Rating: PG-13 for the use of French (which is just inherently _risqué_, _n'est-ce pas_?) and a brief tumble in the grass involving Elladan and Elrohir. The tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean restricted or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).

****

Disclaimer: See the Prologue.

****

Feedback: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

****

Archiving: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

****

Chapter 2 - Mysterious Still, and Stranger, Too

Welcome back, my friends. You have a little something to spare for me? Thank you. You are most kind. You would like to hear more of my tale? Pull up a stool, then.

What's this? You were not content with the ending of yesterday's tale? You wish, like dear, loyal Sam, to meet the Elves? Well, so I have promised, and so you shall soon enough. And more importantly, you shall meet the central character of our story. Actually, you have met her twice already. Well, you have seen her before, at any rate. Still, you have yet to be properly introduced to her, which is very much your loss, and so I shall endeavor to remedy your sorry condition promptly by continuing the story as it was told to me by those who know the events firsthand.

This part of the tale begins in a bedchamber in Imladris -- Rivendell in the Common Tongue. Well, actually it began both long ago and far in the future, and not in Imladris at all, not at first anyway. But it all gets quite confusing if we don't begin in Rivendell, and so it is in Rivendell that we shall begin.

The shaggy-bearded Wizard -- Gandalf in the Common Tongue -- was seated by the bed, puffing his pipe and blowing smoke across the sleeping form of someone so gravely wounded as to have faced death. Do not judge him too harshly, though, for his absent-mindedness might have had something to do with the shock of finding his former leader, Saruman, allied with the Dark Lord Sauron the Deceiver. Lucky, Gandalf was, to have managed to hitch a ride to safety with one of the noble Eagles, who brought him to Imladris.

And beside him -- in the room in Imladris, not on the back of the Eagle -- was Elrond, Lord of Imladris.

o o o o o o o o o o

An Elven male, whose face showed great wisdom and compassion despite his apparent youth, leaned over the bed.

__

Lotto best mean. Total doorman gall odd.  
[Hear me and return to the light.]

The slender figure in the bed moaned softly, eyelids fluttering open like the wings of a butterfly emerging from its chrysallis.

"Where am I?"

Gandalf drew the pipe from his mouth and smiled, saying, "You are in the house of Elrond."

Elrond, pleased to see his patient securely on the path to recovery, smiled as well, saying, "And it has been far too long since last you graced us with your presence, _leering mire_ [lovely one]."

He was rewarded with a stunning smile, which too quickly faded into a worried frown.

"What happened, _Mithrandir_ [Grey Pilgrim, the name the Wizard was known by among the Elves]?" "Why did you not meet them in Bree as planned?"

Gandalf's own face grew somber as he recalled the bit of nastiness he had experienced with his former leader. "I'm sorry, my dear. I was delayed."

"Say no more, old friend! For I see in your eyes the pain you have suffered, the anguish of body and mind and _feta_ [spirit]. Let us speak of this matter no further."

Gandalf smiled kindly once more. "Your heart overflows with generosity, as ever. Sleep now, and when you awaken again, we shall speak further."

He rose and left the room. After confirming that his patient had slipped back into slumber's sweet embrace, Elrond followed him, for they had much to discuss.

o o o o o o o o o o

It was a fitful rest, one filled with flashes of visions, as past, present and future collided in the mind of the sleeper. Slowly, the images resolved into a vast green pasture dotted with sheep.

"Reminds me of New Zealand," she thought to herself. "The Canterbury Plains, maybe. Or --"

"Guin? Guin! Time to do your homework!"

Guin (1) sighed and sat up. "But Mom! The sun is just about to set, and it's so beautiful tonight."

She heard the smile in her mother's voice. "Well, all right then, a few more minutes. But as soon as the sun is down, it's study time for you. OK?"

"OK, Mom. Thanks!"

Lying down in the grass again, she idly scratched the head of one of the pair of identical ferrets frolicking beside her as her thoughts wandered back to New Zealand.

"Oh, Elladan, how I wish I could visit there someday," she sighed. Elladan chittered and butted his pointy face into her hand before scampering off to tumble in the grass with Elrohir.

She rolled over on her stomach and closed her eyes. Pictures from the travel posters that lined the walls of one side of her bedroom filled her mind. The majestic peak of Mount Egmont. The rough waters of Cook Strait. The lush beauty of the rain forests of Queen Charlotte Sound. The sheep pastures of Eketahuna. (2)

Without realizing it, she drifted off into a dream, the fiery light of the setting sun playing over her sleeping form, the earth beneath her warm and solid.

And then it was dark. And cold, hard rock lay beneath her. She sat up and looked around to find herself on the floor of a cave. Several feet ahead of her lay the entrance where the light of the moon shone brightly. But how could that be? She had been watching the sun setting only moments ago. Confused, she stood and walked to the mouth of the cave to look out, her ferrets scampering alongside her.

She was standing at the edge of a sheer cliff in the midst of a long range of snow-covered mountains that seemed strangely familiar. Puzzled, she thought for a moment. Then she realized where she'd seen these mountains before.

"Ohmigod! Guys, it's the Southern Alps! In New Zealand! I'm in New Zealand. But how?"

She pinched herself, to be sure she was awake. She looked outside again, this time up at the stars.

There it was. The Southern Cross, hanging on the blue velvet of the night sky. There was no denying it: she was indeed in the New Zealand Alps. But how had she travelled from her home in Iowa, in the middle of the United States to the South Island of New Zealand in the blink of an eye?

Terrified, yet strangely calm, she looked out on the harsh beauty of the moonlit mountain clefts and peaks. It was a stunning scene, magical, even, a place to which no mere travel poster could do justice. Without thinking, she began to sing:

"May it be an evening star shines down upon you" (3)

She heard a grinding sound behind her and whirled to see the rear wall of the cave slide sideways, revealing a huge door. The ferrets squeaked and darted behind her legs. After a time, when nothing further happened, she walked back to examine it as best she could in the shadowy half-light.

The door was made of stone and fit into its arch so snugly there was no gap to be seen or felt. Elaborate carvings stretched over its surface, with decorative markings tracing the outline of the arch. Finding no handle or knob or latch or button, she sat down on the cave floor again, staring at the door. The ferrets sat and stared at her.

There was something familiar about those carvings, if only she could put her finger on it.

Yes! She'd seen a door just like this! It was on one of the _Lord of the Rings_ posters that lined the walls of the other side of her bedroom back home.

"OK, Guin. Deeeeeeep breaths. OK. Good. Now, think about it. You've read _Lord of the Rings_ from the first book to the last, you've seen the movie twenty times. You know everything that happens in both. So try to remember: where did they encounter a door like this?"

Then it hit her.

Moria. The Mines of Moria. Endless staircases. Leaping Elves and leaping Men and even a leaping (but not tossed) Dwarf. Moria. Where Gandalf perished fighting a fiery Balrog of Morgoth. She shuddered. This was not looking good. Nuh-uh.

"Oh Guin, get a grip, 'kay? There's no river, no Watcher, so it can't be Moria."

Then it hit her.

"I fell asleep in my backyard in America, had a dream about New Zealand and woke up on South Island in a cave that just happens to have a magical door that appears out of nowhere? As if! This is, like, totally so not happening. NO WAY!"

She looked down at her ferrets, who chittered and shook their heads in unison.

Then she looked at the door again. 

It was, indeed, happening. But what did it mean? Why her? How was she going to get back home? She began to panic, but realized she had to keep her wits about her and be strong for her ferrets.

In the moments it took to calm herself, the moon sank low enough to shine directly into the cave. Its beams pierced the gloom and bathed the door in silver light, illuminating a runic script she had not noticed before.

"I know that writing!" she exclaimed, leaping to her feet, startling the ferrets, who scampered back several paces.

"It's -- it's -- it's ELVISH! Omigod! OH MY GOD! And it's written in _ease ceiling_ [a magical metal visible only in moonlight or starlight]. That's why I couldn't see it until now! OK, Guin, calm down. You know how to read Elvish, so just look at it and see what it says."

She moved closer to study the letters, puzzling out the words. The ferrets ventured closer again to sniff at the stone archway.

"OK, third person declarative 'There ishomeplate.' No, that's not right. 'There is nohomey-like place.' No, no, no. 'There is no place like home.' Huh? What -- is it, like, Toto-time or something? Wicked witches and stuff? Weirdness alert, guys! This just can't be real. It's not happening!"

As her the panic rose in her voice once again, the ferrets squealed and darted behind her. Instantly, she regretted frightening her faithful companions and bent to comfort them with a soothing hand.

Then, straightening up, she took another deep breath. "OK, back to the Elvish, Guin! Third person imperative. 'Speakenter.' Speak French?"

She looked down at Elladan and Elrohir. "Whassup with that? Nobody in Middle-earth speaks French!"

The ferrets tilted their heads expectantly, but made not a sound.

Then it hit her.

"Oh it's quite simple. If you are French, you speak the password and the doors will open. Of course! So what's the password?"

She paused for a few moments, running through past French lessons in her mind, then raised her voice to ring clearly against the stone walls.

"_Bien sûr_! _Oh la la_! _L'état, c'est moi_! _Champagne_! _Laissez les bontemps rouler_!"  
[Of course! Hubba hubba! The state, 'tis I! Bubbly! Let the good times roll!"]

The ferrets danced to the lilting notes of her voice, but the door did not budge. Dejected, she slumped to the ground again. Elladan and Elrohir made a beeline for her lap.

"Leina," she groaned, remembering her friend who had spent many summers in Paris and was nearly fluent in French, "where are you when I need you, _mon amie_ [my friend]?"

The last word had no sooner left her lips than the door swung open. A soft light glowed in the passageway beyond, and she caught the faint scent of sandalwood wafting in on a gentle breeze.

She stood slowly, walked to the doorway and peered in, the ferrets peeking out from behind her legs. It was like looking through a dense fog -- she could see nothing beyond the frame of the door. Still, what other choice did she have?

Swallowing hard, she stepped through the doorway, with Elladan and Elrohir close at her heels.

(To be continued)

o o o o o o o o o o

Notes:  


(1) Guin is an unusual spelling of the nickname for Guinevere, which the French translation of my real name.

(2) In case you were wondering, these are all real places; some are just better known than others. I'm not making them up -- I've seen all of them for myself. Spent some time near Eketahuna, in fact. Sheep. Lots of sheep.

(3) The song sung during the movie's closing credits by Enya (the artist, not the ancient, musical Elvish language).


	4. 3 A Mystery Solved, Yet

****

Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales

****

Author: Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.com

****

Rating: For this chapter, definitely G, for gushing. The tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean restricted or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).

****

Disclaimer: See the Prologue.

****

Feedback: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

****

Archiving: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

****

Author's Note: This will be the last note I write from outside the story until we reach the end of the tale. From the end of this note forward, when writing author's notes and endnotes I must adopt the role of The Author Who Is the Sue Who Is the Author, else I shall not be able to meet all the specifications set by Gil Shalos' test. Before I disappear, I would like to state for the record that I am over 30, I am quite capable of writing complete sentences in my native English, and I do not have any confusion about the boundaries between my daily life and that of my OC (original character). Not yet, at any rate. See you at the end of the story.

****

Chapter 3 - A Mystery Solved, Yet Strangeness Remains

Such long and sour faces! What troubles you now? You say I promised you Elves and an introduction to the central character last time? Indeed I did, and I gave you both! Sort of. Well there was one Elf in the previous night's tale, anyway. But he was twice-born, so surely he must count for two nights' tellings. And you have met Guin, who is of course more than she seems, much more, although she may not seem like much at all at the moment.

So rest easy, my friends! I assure you that by the end of this evening's story, you shall have your fill of Elves and of introductions. Best you make yourselves comfortable and not nip too eagerly at that bottle, for you'll need your wits about you to follow the part of the tale I am about to unfold before you.

As you may recall, we were in a cave in the New Zealand Alps with a young American lass and her twin ferrets, all of whom were just stepping into a fog-shrouded doorway that magically appeared at the back of the cave. Well, we are now on the other side of that doorway. And so are they.

o o o o o o o o o o

"Elladan, come quickly!"

The dark-haired Elf did not need to look up to know his twin had entered the clearing, despite the latter's silent steps.

The younger of the brothers knelt at the side of a beautiful, yet strangely clad maiden. Two rodents of a species unknown to him huddled against her other shoulder, baring their teeth at him as if in warning. Careful to keep his fingers away from those porcelain needles, he checked for a pulse.

"She lives. But why she does not awaken, I cannot say."

Elladan frowned. "She looks to be human. Perhaps it is an illness of the Race of Men? We must take her to Father. Surely he will know what ails her."

Elrohir nodded his agreement as his eyes drifted back to the still form that lay before him. The rodents, reassured by the soothing presence common to all Elves, had settled down and were now watching the twins expectantly.

But Elladan did not even notice them as he stepped forward for a better look. He saw only the maiden before him. She appeared young, somewhere between twelve and twenty -- not yet a woman, no longer a child. But it was not her youth that caught the eye of the eldest son of Elrond.

She was beautiful. Extremely beautiful. More beautiful even than Lúthien Tinuviel, the She-Elf who was possessed of such astounding beauty that all of Arda went into mourning when she died.

Without looking up, Elladan sighed. "Surely, had he laid eyes on this fair maiden, Daeron himself would have swooned at her feet and forgotten Lúthien in the space between two heartbeats."

Elrohir nodded. "Indeed, brother, you speak the very words that were in my mind. She is beautiful beyond word and song."

Then the Elves fell silent once more, each lost in his admiration for her perfection. Even in repose, her skin radiated such light and purity that the whole of the autumn glade where they had found her seemed renewed as if by the kiss of spring. Her body was slender, yet unmistakably feminine. Small breasts rose and fell with each soft breath. Slender hips curved smoothly outward from her narrow waist. 

And her hair. Ah, her hair! Her beautiful tresses rippled thick and rich about her like a heavy silken cloak. A most unusual shade, it was neither red nor brown nor blond, but some rich melding of the three, as if Dwarves had hammered copper, iron and gold together and spun the amalgam into threads. Long and full, it fell in soft waves about her head. Her hair was a pool reflecting the sunset's colors; her face, a pale lily floating on its glowing waters.

How long they stood staring, neither twin could say, until at last the ferrets -- for, as you will have guessed, the rodent-like creatures at her side were her pets, Elladan and Elrohir -- grew impatient and began to scold the spellbound Elves.

Recalled to their senses, the twins sprang into action, one leaping onto his horse while the other wrapped her in his cloak and lifted her into his brother's arms before swinging up onto his own mount. Together, they rode hard for home, bearing the one who had so quickly become precious to them, with the ferrets following as quickly as they might along the trail.

o o o o o o o o o o

He knew who she was the moment his sons laid her on the bed in the Room of Healing. The gloom that had shrouded his heart since the departure of his beloved wife, Celebrían, for the Undying Lands was lifted, and light and joy filled him for the first time in more than 400 years.

"_Leering mire_ [lovely one]," he sighed. "_Leering mire_, you have returned at last."

"_Ada_ [Daddy], you know this strange, yet beautiful creature?" asked Elladan, whose look of surprise was mirrored by that of his twin.

"Aye, my son, I do. Or did, long ago."

"Who is she?" the twins asked with one voice.

Elrond sighed again, his eyes focussing on some distant place and time that only he could see.

"Her name is Menethôlwen (1). And she is a famous Elf-friend of old, returned once again to aid us in our time of need. Surely, you have read of Menethôlwen and heard the many stories of her wisdom and bravery in your lessons?"

Elladan looked to Elrohir, who was the more studious pupil in matters of books and lore and such, but found his brother looking as puzzled as he felt.

Seeing his sons' bewilderment, Elrond made a note to have their tutor, Glorfindel, schedule a review session on the early histories of Middle-earth for them. A very long review session.

At that moment, Gandalf entered the room. Nodding briefly to the ferrets who had slipped in unnoticed at the heels of the younger Elves and now sat silently in the corner, Gandalf turned to address the twins.

"Menethôlwen is my daughter. Well, my adopted daughter, really. But I love her as if she were my own, and I am very happy to see her once again. And also very troubled. Her return foretells a time of strife and struggle, the outcome of which even the Wisest cannot see. "

"How can you say such a thing of one so lovely?" cried Elladan.

"Indeed! How can it be that the arrival of such beauty signals a dark doom?" cried Elrohir.

The ferrets squeaked softly in the corner.

"Ah," sighed Gandalf, "now that is a much longer tale, and as such, it is better told by your father, who is, after all, the Loremaster of the Elves."

And with that, the Wizard, the twins and the ferrets turned toward Elrond expectantly.

o o o o o o o o o o

Unfortunately, it was a long tale indeed, and being a Loremaster, Elrond was not one to leave out either the smallest of details or the longest of genealogies. Therefore, to ensure that we may all have at least a bit of sleep this night, I shall tell you the tale in its barest terms, just as soon as I have a piece of that carrot you're nibbling and a fresh drink.

Thank you, kind sir. Now, where was I? Ah yes, the very condensed history of Menethôlwen. And do not doubt me when I say it is condensed! For if it seems over-long to you as I tell it, and if you find yourself growing impatient at its complexity and duration, just imagine to yourself what shape and size such a tale would take in the hands of the Loremaster of the Imladris, and be grateful that you hear it from me rather than him, else you might find you had aged visibly during its telling. Had I told it to you as I heard it from those who did, in fact, grow older while hearing it in its original form, we would be here past sunrise. So sit quietly now and pay attention if you wish to avoid the need for repetition.

Born by the will of Ilúvatar before the Awakening of the Elves, Menethôlwen dwelt for time untold as an elemental spirit in the waters of Arda, shifting freely between vapor, water and ice as she pleased and working her goodly magics upon the newly-made lands. With the beginning of the Years of the Trees, she was embodied for the first time in the guise of an Elf, sent by the Valar to teach the newly awakened Elves speech, song and the ways of love, so that little Elflings might be made and Ilúvatar's First Children might flourish.

During those early years, she was lover first to Glorfindel, who had awakened at Cuiviénen, and later to Círdan, who was of the first generation of Elflings born to Arda. After the sundering of the Elves, she was for many years consort to Celeborn, the silver-haired forester, and dwelt with him in Doriath. But when at the beginning of the First Age the Noldor returned, the Lady Artanis among them, Menethôlwen bid farewell to Celeborn, and after years of wandering, she in the end sacrificed her Elven body in the War of Wrath. For she had foreseen that Artanis, whom Celeborn would rename Galadriel, was his true mate until the end of Arda and beyond, and their _fetar_ [spirits] could not be joined while he still felt the presence of his former lover walking Middle-earth in Elven form. Male Elves have such a difficult time letting go, you know!

Well, more than seven hundred years later, Menethôlwen was re-embodied, again as an Elf, this time to guide the Noldor in the building of Eregion. A great city arose under her quiet leadership, and the Noldor were grateful for her wise counsel, at least for a while. Alas, the Noldor eventually got a bit uppity and began to disregard her advice, and her warnings about the true nature of Annatar -- whom she alone perceived to be Sauron in disguise -- went unheeded. The Rings of Power -- the Three Rings, the Seven Rings, the Nine or Ten Rings (whichever it was) -- were made by the Elves who lived among the trees.

As you well know, clever ones that you are, when those Rings of Power were completed, Sauron forged the One Ring to bind to him all the other Rings, ensnaring their bearers and bending them to his evil will. And less than a century later, Eregion fell to Sauron's might. And what else did they expect? That's what happens when you ignore wise counsel. Sadly it won't be the last time we see such foolishness abroad in Middle-earth during this tale, not by a long mile.

After the loss of Eregion, Menethôlwen was determined to do all she could to aid the surviving Elves in the battle against Evil. She joined her new lover, Elrond, and with his aid, founded Imladris as a haven for her beloved Elves. And so it was that when the Last Alliance marched against Sauron and his minions, she served as herald to the High King of the Elves, Gil-Galad, with Elrond at her side.

And in case you have not figured it out for yourself by now, I shall lay it plain before you: when the Ring was cut from the hand of Sauron by Isildur, it was she, Menethôlwen, who urged the very recently ascended King of Men up the slopes of Mount Doom and begged him to cast the Ring into the fire. But, as you will recall, Isildur was seduced by the Ring's voice and fled the mountain, clutching the precious circle in his hand. Having foreseen that her current lover, Elrond, must be free to bind himself to the daughter of her former lover, Celeborn, in the next Age, she admitted before the Valar her failure to destroy Sauron and cast her Elven body into the flames, freeing her _feta_ [spirit] to return to the waters of Arda, there to await her next summons to aid the peoples of Middle-earth.

It was not until the beginning of the second millennium of the Third Age that she was re-embodied once more, this time in the guise of a human baby. But no ordinary babe, this one, oh no! For the Valar had brought her forth by such magics as to combine within her the blood of Elves, Men, Dwarves and Hobbits, so that she was related to all the races that now walked upon Arda and bore the finest traits of each. From the Elves came her strength, wisdom, grace, healing powers, skill with the bow and power to speak with all the trees and creatures of Arda. From Men came her courage, her fiery passion, her skill with the sword and her violet eyes. (Remember the eyes, my friends, for there's more to them than meets the eye, as you shall soon see with your own eyes, so to speak.) From the Dwarves came her wavy hair shining with the colors of iron, copper and gold spun together, as well as her skill with hammer, anvil and axe. And from the Hobbits came her boundless good cheer, her loyalty to those she loved and her skill with the frying pan.

Better still, as I see it, she was not burdened by the doom of any of these peoples. Not for her, the final choice to pass to the West or remain in Middle-earth and fade. The Gift of Ilúvatar -- death -- would never truly claim her, for her _feta_ would live on and remain in Arda. She was tall and slender and beardless, and her feet were unusually dainty and free of hair.

Not a bad deal at all, eh?

Well, having given her this marvelous form, the Valar then gave her into the care of the Maia Olórin, also known as Mithrandir to the Elves and Gandalf to Men and Dwarves and Hobbits and you and me. And Gandalf -- who, it may surprise you to learn, is a real softie underneath that gruff exterior -- adopted her as his own daughter and doted on her as though she were his own flesh and blood.

Alas, their time together was destined to be brief, at least until they met again. For in the first year of their wanderings over Middle-earth, Gandalf received a vision warning him that the babe's life would be forfeit if her true identity were discovered before she came of age and could wield her great powers once more. To keep her safe and secret, he worked a deep magic in the threads of time and space, sending her to live in the distant future among the many-greats-grandchildren of the men of Rohan in a place called Iowa, where she would be raised and cared for until she was old enough to return to Middle-earth and face once more the Evil she had fought through all the Ages of Arda thus far.

o o o o o o o o o o

"And so it has come to pass that Menethôlwen has returned to us once more in this, the autumn of the year 2954 of the Third Age. And so it is that Gandalf, whom we call Mithrandir, reads in her arrival a sign of impending struggle."

Gandalf nodded, adding, "Well, there is also the not insignificant fact that Oroduin, Mount Doom, has rumbled to life once more and is shooting flame and molten rock into the skies of Mordor."

Elrond nodded sagely, "True, true. I had overlooked that point."

The ferrets looked at each other and twitched their noses.

Elladan (the Elf, not the ferret), who was still struggling to assimilate the lengthy and complicated tale, finally pulled together enough wits to frame a question: "What's an elemental, Ada?"

Gandalf glanced at Elrond and rolled his eyes in mock despair before turning back to the twins.

"Elementals, my dear boy, are creatures born of Arda in the very beginning of time as we know it. In their natural state, they appear as one of the elements -- Air, Earth, Fire or Water -- but now and again, the Valar have seen fit to grant them living bodies so they may walk the lands of Arda and do the bidding of Manwë. Most of them perished in the darkness before Varda hung the stars in the sky. But Menethôlwen has survived all the Ages of Middle-earth and has come to the aid of the Elves time and time again."

A memory struggled to emerge from the fog in Elrohir's mind, a passage in a book he had read somewhere sometime.

"There is another name for these beings, is there not, Mithrandir?"

Elrond gave silent thanks to Elbereth that at least one of his sons was managing to show signs of intelligence in the presence of a Maia.

Gandalf smiled indulgently at the younger twin. "Yes, my boy, you're quite right. And as she is awakening as we speak, I shall now make a formal introduction. Gentlemen, I present to you: Menethôlwen of the Ninnir."

Elladan and Elrohir looked to their father and spoke one after the other, completing each other's sentences as they so often did.

"The Ninnir?"

"You mean?"

Elrond nodded.

"Yes. She is a Ninni."

(To be continued)

o o o o o o o o o o

Notes:  


(1) Hi! It's me, The Author, and I'm INSANE. I've had sooooo many pixie stix 'n skittles that I'm on a mega-sugar high! Hope u r liking the story so far! Don't 4get 2 R&R!!!!! And don't worry: Legolas will show up soon!!!! I lurrrrrrrrrrrrrve him -- don't u 2?

In case you were wondering, Menethôlwen is the Elvish derivation of Guinevere, which is the French name that my real name came from in the lost language of the ancient Celts of Cornwall. I had to spend a lot of time thinking up the perfect name for my character. Well, I didn't really have to think about the first bit because all my original characters have the same name, which is my name, with different translations from the name generator. But it took me more than a day to decide to use the French version of my name instead of my real name. I always wished I had the name Guinevere instead of my real name - I even tried to get my sisters to call me that, but they wouldn't, the little twits.

Anyhoo, Guinevere used to be the name I gave all my characters in my hysterical romance stories -- ya know, like King Arthur and Robin Hood and all those ancient days guys? But that was before I fell in love with the Elfies and all the other hunks Peter Jackson made up for his awesome movie. I heard they've come out with the book of the movie -- I hope it has lots of pix in it! Ya know, like the Star Trek books that tell episodes from the TV show? But those writers better stick to the movie script, 'cause I just hate it when they make changes in the book and leave out important stuff or have stuff that doesn't happen the same way as in the movie. Don't you? :-[

BTW, I think menethôl is an Elven healing herb -- ya know, like in mouthwashes and sore throat drops and stuff? -- so it probably doesn't get used as a name usually. But it sounds cool cuz you can't tell if it's a him or a her right away cuz it sounds kinda like a guy's name. Anyhoo, I got the name Menethôlwen from the Barrow-Downs name generator -- www.barrowdowns.com -- and it took me a while to fiddle around so I -- oops! I mean, my character! ha ha! -- would have a cool name, so I really hope you like it. OK now, back to the story.


	5. 4 Somewhat Less Strange

****

Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales

****

Author: Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.com

****

Rating: For this chapter, G for "Good grief!" or "Gag me!" or just plain "Gack!" The tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean restricted or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).

****

Disclaimer: See the Prologue.

****

Feedback: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

****

Archiving: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

****

Author's Note: Sorryyyyy it's been sooooo long since I updated, but u know all that weerd weather we've been having? Welllll, see, turns out when Gandalf the Grey came back as Gandalf the White, he, like, FORGOT a bunch of his spells! I know 'em all, of course, so I haf to help him remember and give him lessons 'n stuff. Anyhoo, me 'n him have been out at dawn on Boston Common casting spells every day 4, like, weeks now, 'n he still can't get it right sometimes. Ya know, he's an old guy, so I guess he's kinda slow. But he's rilly rilly rilly powerful, so when he goofs, it's, like, mega "Oh s***!" So if u got snow in April, well, don't blame me! Talk to Gandalf!

****

Chapter 4 - Somewhat Less Strange and Not as Mysterious

Welcome back, my friends! Are you ready for more tales of Menethôlwen and the Elves and all the rest of the folk who dwell in Middle-earth, or dwelt there once? Might still dwell there, some of them, come to think of it. Haven't really gone and had a look lately, myself. No reason to, really. I mean, what with --

What? You say you are ready for the story now? Well good, it's about time! You have a sweet bit of something for me in exchange, of course?

Ah, very nice. Thank you.

Now when last we left the tale, Menethôlwen was awakening in Imladris in the year 2954 of the Third Age, some years before the adventures of Frodo and Strider and the others take place. Now don't worry -- we'll come back, or go forward, to those silly folks soon enough. But first, you must learn more of the history, or at least the more recent past, of Menethôlwen of the Ninnir. So we shall rejoin Guin as she awakens in her bed in the House of Healing of Imladris.

Well, what is there to say, really? She woke up. And Elrond and Gandalf and Elladan and Elrohir (the twins and the ferrets) were all there staring at her, although she didn't see the ferrets at first because they were sitting quietly in a corner. It's what happened next that was interesting, so we'll just skip right along to the good part.

o o o o o o o o o o

"Whoa! That was, like, the weirdest dream I have ever had," Guin mumbled. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, her mouth gaping wide in a yawn.

And remaining that way for a good bit longer after the yawn had passed. For she had opened her eyes to find several handsome men with pointy ears and a bearded man whose ears were hidden by wild, white hair and a crooked, pointy hat, all of them staring at her.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Rubbed her eyes again.

"Oh. My. God."

Elrond smiled gently and said, "_My go van in_ [Greetings], Menethôlwen."

Guin stared at him. "Huh?"

Elrond repeated himself, but it was clear that comprehension still eluded her.

Suddenly, Gandalf rapped his knuckles on his hat and chuckled sheepishly.

"Fool of an Istari! You've forgotten to lift the spell that binds her memory!"

He lifted his staff and muttered words none but the ferrets could understand. A glowing light moved from the crystal at the tip of his staff to surround the young woman in the bed. Guin's eyes glazed over and rolled up into her head as she fell into a trance. The ferrets scampered out of the corner and leapt onto the bed to dance across the silk coverlet, chittering a curious rodent counterpoint to Gandalf's incantations.

Gradually, the light faded, and with its departure, a new awareness arose within the young woman. She looked into Gandalf's eyes for a long moment before reaching her hands out to him, crying, "_Ada_! [Daddy!]"

Gandalf moved to accept her embrace, feeling a bit awkward as she was no longer the wee babe he had sent into the future, but a girl on the threshold of womanhood and thus a good deal more endowed than when he had last seen her. Still, he pushed his discomfort aside to welcome the last Ninni back to the world she had loved so dearly and sacrificed so much to defend.

Elrond cleared his throat and stepped forward. As Gandalf released the young woman, she looked up into the grey eyes of her former lover and saw clearly the fondness he still felt for her, as well as the grief she knew she would find. She held out one hand to him.

"Alas, _ye hour smelleth need_ [my ancient beloved], I see that I have returned too late to save your beloved Celebrían. Forgive me that I was not able to grow more quickly and thus spare you the agony of separation from the one to whom your _feta_ [spirit] will be forever bound!" And her eyes filled with tears.

Elrond found he could say nothing in the face of such overwhelming compassion. He merely smiled sadly and bent forward to embrace her, stroking her hair for a moment before straightening once more.

"My own loss and pain are as nothing when I consider all that you have endured over the Ages with no thought for your own suffering. It is enough that you have returned to us, _teething gerkin_ [my little heart]. The Darkness stirs once more, and it will be good to have you standing again on the side of all that is good and light in Arda."

Elladan and Elrohir, unable to restrain their ardor any longer, threw themselves into the young woman's arms, each nuzzling one of her ears, begging for her undivided attention as they pawed eagerly at her breasts and hair.

She smiled as the ferrets clambered over her, and then she began to laugh. The entire room was suddenly made brighter by the ringing sounds of her joy. Elves all over Imladris paused in their daily chores as the silvery notes tumbled forth like crystalline chimes in the wind, and the elder Eldar smiled knowingly at each other.

Menethôlwen had returned.

o o o o o o o o o o

Well, my friends, as you can see, our Menethôlwen is indeed a most beloved Elf-friend. But as Elrond has seen, dark times approach, and now that she has awakened, she must quickly resume her place as a defender of the peoples of Middle-earth. To ready herself for what lies ahead, she must reclaim her powers and reassemble her companions.

Yes, her powers and companions. You do not know about these things? Ah, well then, I shall have to take a bit of time to tell you of them. The powers will make themselves known as needed. But the companions you must meet now, for they are quite essential to my story in ways you cannot yet foresee. You know Elladan and Elrohir, the ferrets, already. But there are more. Many more. And I shall introduce you to some of them before we end tonight's tale.

o o o o o o o o o o

Erestor set aside his quill and stretched. The seneschal of Imladris been hard at work translating an ancient Enyan text into Cinderon all morning. It was high time, he thought, for a walk in the garden to refresh himself before lunch.

Striding across the library, he opened the door.

And found himself face-to-whisker with a Bengal tiger.

They regarded each other for several long moments, and then the beast opened his mouth, baring his ivory teeth at the Elf.

"Drat that woman and her companions!" Erestor muttered, turning his head and fanning the air in front of him. "As if I don't have enough to deal with here, I must now arrange for the care of her menagerie once again."

The tiger finished his yawn and blinked, then purred at the Elf.

"Now don't you go trying that 'innocent little kitten' act on me. It may work with my beloved Lindir, but I am cold as the wind off Caradhras. Your furry wiles will not move me!"

And with a tiny sniff, he gathered his robes about him, stepped around the large feline and made his way down the hall.

o o o o o o o o o o

Earlier that same morning, Gandalf and Menethôlwen had left for a walk in the meadows that were hidden in the craggy mountains that cradled Imladris. Accompanied by Elladan and Elrohir, the ferrets, the Maia and the Ninni chatted about the old days, and the older days, and even the days before those, and also the days since, with Gandalf relating all that had happened while Menethôlwen was safely hidden away in Iowa. For time had passed much more rapidly in the Middle-earth of the present, which is now the past, than in the Midwest of the future, which is now more or less the present, or something like that.

Pondering the passage of time and all that had come to pass in that time, they fell silent, each lost in thoughts of past, present and future. Then Menethôlwen remembered something that had been on her mind earlier that day. 

"Gandalf, you have not spoken of your faithful companion of old, Shadowfax. There was a time when you were inseparable. Such a majestic, intelligent, noble creature he was, untamed despite his love for you. In all his long life, he answered to none but those very few whom he found equal to his magnificent presence. When last I walked these lands as an Elf, he had chosen you, and you, him. Where is he now?"

A cloud crossed Gandalf's face, and he paused in his steps to draw a pipe from his pocket and fuss with it, obviously stalling. Menethôlwen waited patiently. At last, the wizard spoke, his voice stiff and his words more halting than usual.

"That was a long time ago, my dear. We have since gone our separate ways. We remain friends, of course, each of us free to wander the lands, yet ever ready to aid one another if the need should arise."

He paused, reliving some moment long passed. Menethôlwen again waited patiently until, sure enough, the wizard's gaze returned to the present and he smiled at the beauty before him.

"Oh, fear not for your own bond with him! Although he will answer to no other being on this side of the Great Sea, he will obey you without hesitation. If you should need the Lord of the Mearas, just whistle. You remember how to whistle, don't you? Just put your lips together and blow! Go on, try it! He has not laid eyes on you since you were a babe and will be overjoyed to see you again, I am certain."

Hesitating but a moment, she turned and whistled to the skies. And another moment later, Shadowfax appeared out of the trees, galloping across the green meadow, a shimmering vision of white as the sun shone on his forelock and reflected off his milky withers. Stopping a few paces in front of the Ninni, he bowed his head to her, then trotted to her side and laid down so she might braid his mane as had been her wont of old.

Menethôlwen happily indulged the marvelous creature's request, and she, Gandalf and the horse sat contentedly in the sun while she wove into the long, creamy silk intricate patterns not seen since the First Age. When she was finished, they all rose to their feet (two, two and four, respectively) and the two-footed bade the four-footed with the forelock farewell for now, foreseeing they would have further dealings in the future.

o o o o o o o o o o

Upon returning to the House of Elrond, Menethôlwen went in search of her other companions who, sensing her embodied presence once again, would have awakened from their magical sleep by now and begun making their way back to Imladris. For only Elladan and Elrohir, the ferrets, had accompanied her when Gandalf sent her to the future. The others had scattered, retreating to caves and aeries and burrows and other such places to sleep until summoned once more to her side.

A melodious voice rose from across the lawn, and her face lit up as she recognized the singer. She lifted her skirts and ran lightly across the grass, through an opening in the hedge and found herself once more in the splendid gardens where, long ago, she had spent many happy days (and nights) with the Lord of Imladris. 

Lindir, the beautiful and beloved spouse of Erestor, looked up from his seat on a wooden bench and smiled his greeting to her without breaking the flow of his ballad. At his feet, the Bengal tiger lay snoozing. Perched on the branch of a large oak tree, a mighty eagle preened its feathers and chortled in its throat, forming an avian accompaniment to the minstrel's tune, while a monkey daintily nibbled on figs offered to him by the dark-haired Elf who sat listening to Lindir.

When the song ended, Lindir leapt up and threw his arms around Menethôlwen.

"I had heard you were back, but only now that I see you can my heart be certain! Welcome home, _need mail lawn_ [my friend]!"

Menethôlwen hugged the young Elf with equal enthusiasm. He had always had a way with her animal companions, soothing the tiger and calming the eagle on those rare occasions when she left Imladris without them. And it was he who had finally persuaded Erestor to allow the tiger to roam inside the buildings, something for which she remained most grateful.

Breaking their joyful embrace, Lindir blushed and turned to the darker Elf, who had risen to his feet and was waiting to be noticed.

"Oh dear! I have forgotten my manners once again! What _will_ Erestor say when he learns of this? Ah me! Menethôlwen, this is my friend, Melpomaen. Melpomaen, this is Menethôlwen, Elf-friend of old and the wisest, prettiest, sweetest person I have ever known. Except for Erestor, of course!"

The Elf and the Ninni smiled at the flustered minstrel and nodded to each other politely, but before they could speak, another Elf joined them.

"Ah, there you are! I have been searching for you!"

"Well then," she replied, feigning a haughtiness she did not feel, "the fabled powers of perception of the twice-born must be exaggerated, for I have been within the borders of Imladris since I awoke in the House of Healing."

Glorfindel grinned at her and shook his head.

"Ever the spitfire, eh? Well, never mind. I have found you, and now I shall beg, if I must, to have you walk with me but a little ways."

Menethôlwen pretended to consider his request, then held out her hand to be escorted. She turned to Lindir and Melpomaen and smiled.

"Farewell for now, friend of old and friend newly made. One does not lightly deny the request of a Balrog slayer, and so I must away with him as he has asked."

Offering her his arm, Glorfindel led her on a lazy, winding course through the trees that eventually brought them to the stables. 

"I have something to show you, _leering mire_ [lovely one]!"

Menethôlwen cast her old lover a warning look and said in a voice that could not quite disguise her mirth, "I have seen all you might have to show me many times, _mall thin nail_ [golden one], unless you have been re-embodied with aught other than what you had before?"

Glorfindel chuckled wickedly. "Nay, my lady, I am all the Elf I used to be -- no more and no less. Still, I do have something to show you."

He led her to a stall near the back of the stable, then stepped aside, sweeping his hand toward the entrance.

Menethôlwen took a step forward to find a powerful, young stallion of pure white staring at her. She gasped with amazement as her heart leapt into her throat.

"It cannot be!"

"Nay, it is not," Glorfindel confirmed. "Your beloved mare, _Gill-Hiss_ [Starmist], is long dead. But this stallion is her many-greats grandson, and as you see, retains the perfection of your old mount."

Slowly, she reached a hand toward the horse, murmuring wordless sounds to reassure him. The horse tossed his head once, then regarded her with a deep gaze. Softly, she called to him. 

"Come to me, _rock_ [horse]!"

The horse stepped forward and nuzzled her hand. She laughed, looking up to see her joy mirrored in Glorfindel's grinning face.

"Truly, _mail lawn_ [friend], he is a very fine creature! I thank you for seeing that the line of my companion of old did not die with my return to the Waters of Arda!"

Glorfindel's smile turned bashful, and he scuffed at the straw with the toe of one boot.

"Well, a horse is a horse is a horse, of course. Still, there has been something special about this line since first you began to breed it. It would have been a shame to let the bloodline die out." 

Menethôlwen nodded, stroking the stallion's mane. She spoke no reply, but thought to herself, "Aye, 'twas for this purpose that I bred the line. Through my visions, I knew I would have need of such a creature as this one in times to come."

"And I am here to serve you always, Mistress."

Startled, she looked into the horse's eyes.

And found there the light she had secretly hoped to see. She glanced over at the Elf-Lord, who seemed to have heard nothing.

"Neigh. He does not hear my voice. Only to you who worked your magics on the bloodline of my foremothers and forefathers may I speak. For it is to you that I owe my fine forelocks. Thus, I am, and shall forever remain, your four-footed servant."

Glorfindel's voice interrupted their silent exchange.

"By what name will you call this epitome of equine excellence?"

"Mysterréd."

Glorfindel paused, his brows knitted for a moment. "Mysterréd? 'Tis a name I have not heard before. From what language does it derive?"

Her eyes grew distant, her voice strange and deep.

"'Tis from a language of the far future, a mysterious tongue in which words and moving pictures shall be sent over great distances, to be seen and heard by thousands as they look into magical boxes that shall be found in every home."

The ancient Elf, who had long ago grown accustomed to her visions and the sometimes strange answers they brought forth from her lovely mouth, simply smiled and nodded. Gently, he took her arm.

"Come, _leering mire_ [lovely one], let us return to the Last Homey's House for wine and song and chaste companionship as is the custom of the Eldar. I will show you the way."

Menethôlwen snapped out of her trance and snapped at the Elf-Lord beside her.

"I founded Imladris -- I don't need your help finding my way, thank you!"

With a final glance at her newest animal companion, she left the stable and stormed up the path toward the Halls of Fire.

Glorfindel looked up at the stars and sighed, "It is as it ever was with her. Could you not have mellowed her spitfire personality this time?"

When the stars did not answer, he sighed again and hastened to catch up to the Ninni.

(To be continued)

o o o o o o o o o o

Notes:  


Hey, somebody just told me that they've already released the book for the third movie! Wheeee!!!! I can't wait to buy all three books. It's, like, a *trilogy*! An' they have, like, movie pix on the covers and and Elvish writing and maps inside. How kewl is that? And each book is, like, hundreds of pages long!!! That's a whole lot of reading, but it'll be worth it!

Ya know, PJ must have paid that Tokyen guy a lot of money to write such big books. 'Course, he'd have to write rilly long books to get all the incredible, amazing stuff that happens in the movies to fit in, wouldn't he? Now I just have to see if I can keep myself from reading the third book before the movie comes out next year, cuz I don't want to spoil the surpriz! 

Thanks to all the nice people who reviewed the first chapters. You are the BESTEST!!!! I put some more Elvish in here 4 u 2 enjoy, since u liked it so much b4!

Alia, I hope u r not reading this at nit again so ya don't wake up ur hubby. snicker

Soledad, Casey, Finch and Erunyauve -- you guys are, like my HEROES! Everybody shud read ur stuff at Edhellond and here on ff.net cuz it's great!!! I get all my best ideas from reading ur stories. (And the rest of it, I just make up! Tee-hee!)

Lasse-Lante, I hope ur butt's not 2 sore! I luv ur Glorfy story on ff.net -- "Adventurers Together" -- so I put more Glorfy in just 4 u. Hope u like it! (BTW, Brittany Spears is, like, sooooooo last year, ya know? U must b like, rilly old, like 25 or something, if u don't know that!) 

And Worried Girl, don't worry!!!! Leggy will be coming in the next chapter. I can't b-leeeeeeeev how long it's taken me to get to him. But ya gotta have plot and character development and stuff, too, ya know, and that takes up a lot of time. But he'll be here reeeel soon -- I pwomise!!!! Pinkie swears!


	6. 5 More Strangers Unveiled

****

Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales

****

Author: Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.com

****

Rating: PG-13 for this chapter for "pretty ghastly" author's notes and some arguments and armed guards. The tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean restricted or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).

****

Disclaimer: See the Prologue.

****

Feedback: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

****

Archiving: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

****

Author's note: Sorry fr anuthr long wait. I gotta get a job - yuck! - n we r moving 2, so its, like, mega-stress time. Bt artists like me hafta still keep espressing ourslvs, ya know, so don't worry: I'll keep riting til its done!!!!!

u mit b wundring 'bout some of the Elves 'n other stuff I put in this story so far, cuz they're, like, not in the movies? Well, that's cuz I read lotsa fanfic 'n saw thez other guys 'n history stuff and decided to put them in 2 cuz some of it is awesome! So there's, like, some of the way-back olden days battles and cities and Ancient Elves, like Glorfindel. Glorfy is SOOOO hot!!!!

And there's some reeeeeelly bad Bad Guys I might put in later, 2. Like Denethorc, who is the horrible, nasty father of Boromir 'n his baby bro' Farrahmir. He's like, always criticizing them 'n stuff, so it's like, really amazing Bory turned out OK. Bory is SOOOOO hot! Big Meanie! Bory's dad, I mean. He's almost as mean as Leggy's daddy, Thrandrool, who is just, like, totally awful and horrible and cruel 2 poor, sweet, sexy Leggy. He's always beating him 'n locking him up 'n sending him away 'n stuff. Like, ya just wanna feed him 2 the Orcs, ya know? Leggy's dad, I mean. I lurrrrrrrrve Leggy. He's just SOOOOO hot, even hotter than Glorfy and Bory TOGETHER that I, like, get all giggly inside when I think about him kissing me and, well, ya know wink wink

n e way, here's the next chapter. it's a big 1. i hope u like it. don't 4get 2 R&R!!!!

And Levade, here's your SPEW WARNING!!! Ya mit wanna empty ur mouth b4 reading!!!

****

Chapter 5 - More Strangers Unveiled, More Mysteries Revealed

My friends! You have come to see me again so soon? Perhaps you wish to hear more of my tale? Well then, let us hasten to it, for there is much to be covered, uncovered, discovered and recovered in the next part. So, help me wet my whistle, and we shall begin.

A year has passed since last we visited the times of which I tell you, meaning it is now the year 2955 of the Third Age in our tale. Not for long, however: we have but a few matters of times past to tidy up before we leap forward once again to the more recent past, in which Menethôlwen awakened for the second time in the House of Elrond. You say you are confused? Well then pay closer attention, for it all makes perfect sense, or will at some point, I assure you. Now, settle down and listen!

Last time you came to see me, you met some of Menethôlwen's animal companions and saw for yourselves how beloved she is by all the Elves. Thus far, she must seem to you a tender and gentle soul -- powerful in her magic, to be sure, but hardly fit for combat.

Well, you would be utterly wrong. And were you to have found yourself in battle against her, you would have realized your error just before you met a quick death. For Menethôlwen was an accomplished warrior. She was originally trained in combat by the Elves who first forged swords and other implements of war in the Years of the Trees. She was the only female among the Elves to be trained to fight in those days, for although it went against custom, her incredible talent was obvious from the moment she first lifted a sword. 'Twas a gift from the Valar, they knew, and none would gainsay the will of the Powers. And over the millennia of her various embodiments, she acquired not a few weapons of her own, a collection lovingly tended by Glorfindel during the first time she returned to the waters of Arda.

But upon the death of her second body in the flames of Oroduin, Glorfindel asked Elrond to take her weapons with him to Imladris for safe-keeping. And quite a collection it was by that point, requiring its own storage room and a written inventory. Swords of the finest metallurgy from many times and places and cultures, including one by the finest Elven bladesmith who ever lived, Aikalerion the Ancient-Eyed, of the Greenwood. Exquisitely carved bows and quivers of arrows made by the Noldor of Lindon, the Avari of Mirkwood, the Teleri of Doriath, and the Galadhrim of Lothlórien. Axes whose blades were hewn to razor sharpness by the hands of the Secondborn, the Naugrim or Dwarves. Weapons whose names and makers are lost to us in these present times.

All were carefully stored under the personal supervision of Lord Elrond, who placed upon them an enchantment that would prevent them from disintegrating with the passage of time. Thus, when Menethôlwen was ready to begin training her new body, he had but to unlock the door and release the spell, and all her weapons were just as they had been when last she held them.

Meanwhile, as soon as word of Menethôlwen's return reached Lothlórien, Galadriel called Celeborn to her.

"Husband, she to whom we owe our millennia of wedded bliss has recently returned to Middle-earth and is now sheltered within the borders of Imladris. Yet I fear the Dark One has already become aware of her presence. She must recover her warrior skills and quickly, lest his minions find her before she can defend herself!" 

Celeborn nodded .

"You need say no more, _bare ethyl houdini_ [queen of my heart]. I shall ride at once!"

And so he soon arrived in Imladris, where he joined Glorfindel and Elrond in preparing a five-year program of training to return Menethôlwen to her former strength and skill in battle. 

o o o o o o o o o o

"I have killed more foul creatures of the Dark Lord than you will ever see. Do not trifle with me or think to hold back your full strength, but look instead to your own defense, _penny hour_ [ancient one]!"

And with a lightning quick lunge and whirl, she disarmed Celeborn, his axe and sword falling to the ground on either side of him. The silver-haired Elf smiled and raised his now-empty hands in defeat.

"I am slain by your strength as ever I was by your beauty, _teething alder_ [my little tree]!" And he touched his right hand to his heart, bowing.

Menethôlwen lowered her quarterstaff and wiped away the single drop of sweat that had formed on her porcelain brow, sighing.

"Nay, Celeborn, had you been truly slain by my looks all those many years ago, you would not know the deep and abiding love you now share with your Lady of the Golden Wood. 'Tis well you were not, for I should be deeply aggrieved to think that I had come between you and the one to whom you are now soul-bound."

Celeborn's face grew serious.

"Your words ring truly. Had you not made me see where my heart's destiny lay, I might have missed the blossom whose glow has not dimmed for me since the day you gently spurned me and guided my eyes toward her shimmering face. Truly, I owe you my deepest thanks."

And he touched his hand to his heart once more, this time with an expression of reverence and humility.

She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement, then took up the sword and axe he had dropped, tossing the sword to him.

"Come now, mighty forester! Let us see if I can best you once again!"

And soon the forests of Imladris rang again with the clash of metal on metal, as the Ninni pressed onward, honing her skills and strength.

o o o o o o o o o o

Thus it went, day after day. It was a regimen so demanding that even a seasoned warrior might have faltered and begged for some easing of the pace. Indeed, young Strider -- who was called Estel by the Elves, although his real name was Aragorn, and who dwelt in Imladris as Elrond's foster son at this time -- tried to join her in her training, but after only three years, he announced his decision to go abroad to Rohan and Gondor, claiming it was time he learned more of the ways of Men.

For Menethôlwen, however, the harsh tutelage was exactly what she needed. As the knowledge gleaned over centuries lived in other bodies flowed into the muscles of her new form, she quickly surpassed her former lovers, even Celeborn, who, according to the darkened leaves of the Jastanian Scrolls, had mastered more weapons than many younger Elves even knew existed over the millennia of his life. Within a few months of Aragorn's meek departure, the three Elf-lords had all tasted defeat at the business end of her entire array of weaponry, and so it was decided that her training was complete. She was ready to take up whatever purpose it was that the Valar had returned her to Middle-earth to fulfill.

It would be only a scant 60 years before that terrible purpose was revealed.

o o o o o o o o o o

Now we shall jump ahead again, or jump back again, depending on how you look at it, as we are returning to where we were several nights ago, yet it is many years ahead of where we are now. However you look at it, we are going to resume our story at the point where Glorfindel had taken the mysterious stranger to Imladris for healing, and we shall stay there just long enough to say that Strider and the Hobbits and Bill the Pony also arrived in Imladris, which they called Rivendell, a short time later. The year was 3018 of the Third Age.

While Menethôlwen was recovering from her wound, Strider was licking his wounded pride, Frodo was enjoying the proud praises of his Uncle Bilbo, and Sam, Merry and Pippin were sampling the joys of life in Imladris, mostly its culinary delights.

And around this time, various signs and portents had led various folks of the various Races of Middle-earth to make their various ways to Rivendell (which some of them called Imladris), for various reasons that were not always entirely clear even to them.

Thus, it came to pass that in the autumn of that year, Imladris was host not only to Strider's party, but also to a host of Elves, Dwarves and Men, a gathering the likes of which had not been seen for thousands of years, possibly longer. It would later be known as the Council of Elrond, for while the Elf-Lord had held many a council over the millennia, the attendance at this particular one was so unusual that for centuries afterward, all who heard tell of "the council of Elrond" knew to which one the speaker referred, and thus the name stuck, with a capital C tacked on by the scribes to help later readers recognize the distinction. 

See, it all does make sense now, does it not? No? Well then, be quiet and listen some more.

o o o o o o o o o o

The Council of Elrond met in its usual secret place, which, having been the place for secret councils since the founding of Imladris by Menethôlwen and Elrond in the Second Age, was known to all who had ever dwelt in the haven for more than a century or two. Thus, all the Elves knew where to go when the bells sounded, leaving the Men and Dwarves milling about and muttering under their breaths and beards until servants arrived to guide them to the spot.

When all were settled in their seats -- seats which were far too tall for the comfort of Dwarves and far too high-backed for the comfort of Men, but which complemented nicely the long, elegant lines of Elven bodies -- Elrond opened the meeting. Dispensing with the usual pleasantries, welcomes and such, he proceeded straight into a lecture on the profoundly endangered future of the Middle-earth, a doom to which all Races were bound, one which would destroy all if unity of purpose was not achieved.

Once he was sure he had their undivided attention, the Lord of Imladris nodded to Frodo, who stumbled forward and placed the One Ring on a raised dais in the center of the courtyard in which they were gathered.

A murmur arose among the guests as Man, Elf and Dwarf realized exactly which Ring each of them was staring at.

The first to speak was a Man, a handsome man of noble bearing, obviously a seasoned warrior, with reddish blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Rather striking, he was, and clearly gifted in the speech of diplomacy, yet one sensed that within him, there burned a fire that all his training could only barely contain. He rose to his feet to address the Council.

"I am Boromir, eldest son and heir of Denethorc, the Steward of Gondor. For many years, our people have fought and died to hold back the evil of Mordor that threatens to flood your lands. Now, the Valar have given us the very thing by which the Enemy would rule us all. Let Gondor take up this weapon and with it, rid Middle-earth of the Stench of Mordor once and for all."

Some of the other Men nodded as he spoke. But Aragorn listened the man's impassioned speech with growing uneasiness, hearing in the fiery words something both disturbing and seductive. Without rising, he spoke in a voice that nonetheless commanded attention.

"None may wield the One Ring save its Maker and Master, Sauron the Deceiver."

Boromir turned toward the speaker, his eyes raking over the Dúnedan from head to toe and back up again. When he spoke, his voice barely concealed his contempt for the figure before him, despite the fact that Aragorn had not only bathed, but even washed and combed his hair and changed his clothes since arriving in Imladris.

"Are we to take the word of a simple Ranger in such matters/"

Legolas, the stunningly handsome Prince of the Elves of Mirkwood, leapt to his feet soundlessly, in the graceful manner of the Silvan Elves, and tossed his shimmering hair over one shoulder before speaking.

"He is no mere Ranger! This Man is Aragorn, the only son of Arathorn, Captain of the Rangers, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Isildur's Heir and the rightful ruler of Gondor. You owe him your fealty, not your scorn!"

Boromir stared at the no-mere-Ranger for several seconds, incredulous.

"That --" he said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and sneer, "-- that is Isildur's Heir, the last hope of Man? Hiding out here in the North with the Elves while my father and his fathers before him do the dirty work of keeping the kingdom from falling to Mordor? What a surprise!" 

His tone of voice made it clear that he, for one, was not surprised at all.

Aragorn put his forehead in his hand for a moment and sighed. This was not going at all as he'd imagined it. He gestured to Legolas.

"_Hall vote odd, _Legolas! [Sit down, Greenleaf!]" 

Boromir, who had also sunk back into his chair after his outburst looked up, scanning the circle of attendees, and asked of no one in particular, "It is true, then?" 

Aragorn sighed again, more loudly.

"Nay, not entirely. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Well, Aragorn, Junior, actually. Also known as Thorongil, Estel, Elessar, Longshanks, Strider and Viggogorn."

(At this last name, Elrond frowned and glanced at Erestor, who shrugged and spoke directly to the mind of the Lord of Imladris, saying, "Perhaps something the barmaids at the Prancing Pony call him?")

Meanwhile, Aragorn continued his exacting account of his identity.

"And it is true that I am Ranger, Captain, Chieftain and Isildur's Heir, yes. But there is one here among us with a stronger claim to the Throne of Gondor than my own."

Murmuring swept the Council once more, yet none seemed ready to step forward and make such a claim on behalf of himself or another. A voice rose slightly above the others, saying, "Name him!" and the others took up the call, demanding to know who among them was the rightful ruler of the last Kingdom of Men.

"Name him! Name him! Name him!"

Aragorn glanced at Elrond, who gave so subtle a nod that only the play of light over his silver circlet indicated he had moved at all.

Aragorn shifted his gaze to the one seated at Elrond's right hand.

"It is she. The woman with the violet eyes."

Now it was not a murmur, but startled gasps and low cries that filled the Council circle as all turned to regard the beautiful creature. All were captivated by her steady gaze and calm demeanor. Two ferrets peered out from under her skirts as a Bengal tiger strode into the circle and settled beside her, dropping his head to rest on the foot of the Lord of Imladris. And in the silence that descended upon the circle once more, the soft clucking of the eagle in the tree behind her could be heard.

Boromir was the first to recover his wits. He bowed his head to the lady, then turned to Aragorn and spoke, his tone overly solicitous and sincere.

"A woman? 'Tis a very rare thing indeed that a female should have a claim that outweighs that of a male. I know of only a handful of females who have held the throne since the founding of Númenor early in the Second Age. Explain to us how it is that the male Heir of Isildur could be outranked by a mere woman, whatever the color of her eyes?"

Elladan and Elrohir (the twins and the ferrets) made threatening growls from beside and underneath Menethôlwen's chair, respectively.

Legolas leapt silently to his feet once again, tossing his blond hair angrily as he spoke.

"She is no mere woman. She is Menethôlwen of the Ninnir, a Water Elemental given form by the Valar themselves -- ManRay and his wife, Vargas, as well as Ulmuahaha, whose faithful vassal she is. She is also an Elf-friend of old and a defender of all the Races of Middle-earth, Elf, Man and Dwarf. You owe her your respect and gratitude!"

Seeing the confusion on the faces all around him, Aragorn once again bade the beautiful, passionate Elf be seated and then rose to his own feet to speak. Choosing his words carefully, he began thusly.

"Friends from near and distant lands, members of all the goodly peoples of Middle-earth, lend me your ears, and I shall tell to you a tale that has been kept a close secret, known only to Loremaster of Imladris and the royal descendants of his once-identical, now long-dead twin brother, Elros, the first King of Númenor."

o o o o o o o o o o

Of course Aragorn, having been raised in the House of Elrond, took almost as long as the Loremaster himself would have done in telling the tale, so I'll interrupt my own tale for a moment to give you the short and sweet of the matter.

Violet eyes were a trait seen but once in an Age, and then only among Númenorian females descended directly from Míriel, the one-and-twenty-greats granddaughter of Elrond's twin, Elros, who chose to be Mortal and thus became the first King of Númenor.

And who was Míriel? Well you might ask, for few now know. Born prior to the year 3200 of the Second Age, she was the heir apparent to the throne of Númenor and by rights ought to have assumed the title of queen upon the death of her father, who had at some point changed his name to Tar-Palantir for reasons we needn't go into just now, although Aragorn did so at great length, of course.

Now, Míriel was generally a good girl, obedient and dutiful in her studies of the arts, literature, weaponry, military strategy and all the other sorts of things future rulers must learn. And she was as lovely a queen-to-be as any might wish for: fair of face with a strong, yet slender figure, auburn hair that tumbled over her shoulders, and the most exquisite violet eyes ever seen in a child of Elf, Man or Dwarf up to that point in time. But, she was also a passionate creature, possessed of a spitfire personality and given to wandering off on journeys and quests of her own making, sometimes for years at a time, to slake the boredom of waiting for her long-lived father to cease his long life. And on one of those journeys, unbeknownst to any but her faithful nurse, she had taken a lover and borne to him a child in secret while pretending to be off in the mountains for a period of contemplation in preparation for her ascent to the throne.

Alas, it was the year 3255. You do not remember what happened that year? Then let me refresh your memory. While Míriel was away, the nephew of the King, the arrogant and foolish Ar-Pharazôn, stole the sceptre and claimed the throne of Númenor for himself. When word of her cousin's treachery reached Míriel, she left her babe with her nurse and returned at once to avenge her father and claim what was rightfully hers, only to be captured by Ar-Pharazôn. Her cousin forced her to marry him and bear him children, and it was through those children that the bloodline that would centuries later produce Isildur and Aragorn was begun. Which explains a lot, doesn't it?

Ar-Pharazôn ruled as King for some time -- and a fat lot of good it did that silly git and his people. Seized by an inflated sense of his own importance in Middle-earth, he attempted to sail to the Undying Lands, which were off-limits to Mortals. Adding insult to injury, upon arriving, he demanded the Valar grant immortality to all Men, which rude behavior led to the ruin of all of Nûmenor, the freeing of Sauron's evil spirit and, ultimately, the untimely deaths of his descendants, Elendil and Isildur. 

You see now from which side of the family tree Isildur's ego sprouted?

Be that as it may, Míriel's love child was spirited away by the nurse and raised in safety, so well hidden that its name, even its gender, were lost to history. But the blood of this nameless child flowed down through the Ages, surging to life now and again to produce a girlchild with violet eyes. And when the Valar deigned to re-embody Menethôlwen once again in the Third Age, they eschewed the recognized descendants of the Númenorian Kings, whose blood was tainted by the weakness of Ar- Pharazôn, and chose instead to draw upon the pure bloodline of Miríel.

And thus it was Menethôlwen, she of the violet eyes, not Aragorn with his grey eyes, who had the stronger claim to the Throne of Gondor. 

o o o o o o o o o o

Menethôlwen sat still and silent throughout the entire telling of this tale, no mean feat, given how long it took Aragorn to tell it. As Isildur's Heir sat back down, all eyes turned toward her.

She sighed and turned to Elrond.

"I have no memory of this tale. Is it true?"

Elrond nodded gravely.

"Indeed, Menethôlwen, my foster son has spoken the truth. Through the Mortal blood of the body in which you were returned to us, you are descended of Míriel, and thus the Throne of Gondor belongs to you. This secret tale has always been made known to those who bear the blood of the Kings of Númenor, so I did not think to mention it to you. It must be that the Valar had a reason to keep this knowledge from you until now, although what that reason might be, even the wisest here -- which would be me -- cannot say."

Silence fell as each Man, Elf and Dwarf contemplated the significance of the revelation. Erestor, in particular, was troubled, for this new information would require a complete rethinking of the seneschal's seating plans for that night's dinner.

The period of quiet contemplation was broken at last by the sound of a Hobbit clearing his throat. It was Sam who spoke.

"Uh, so, Master Elrond, sir. Uh, what about the Ring?"

Recalled to the moment from his private musings, Elrond quickly regained his composure.

"It is quite simple really. The Ring must be destroyed."

Gimli rolled his eyes and heaved his bulky form out of the too-tall chair, snatching up an axe as he strode toward the pedestal in the middle of the circle.

"Well then, let's get on with it! We Dwarves know a thing or two about the destruction of metal!"

And so saying, he swung the axe up over his head and brought it down with a fierce grunt.

Only to find his backside planted painfully on the stones several steps away without being quite sure how he got there.

Elrond resisted the urge to roll his eyes, although several others among the Elves did not.

"None of us can destroy the Ring, Gimli. It must be returned to the fires of Oroduin, the place you call Mount Doom, in the land of Mordor. Now which of you is going to carry out this task?"

Not a sound was heard as the eyes of the rest of the Men, Elves and Dwarves present all focussed on various bits of the stone floor beneath their respective owners' feet.

Boromir alone looked around the circle. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly weary to his bones.

"Mordor, my Lord Elrond, is not a picnicking spot. There are things fouler than Orcs that guard the Black Gates, and the evil Eye of Sauron watches always. The land, the water, the air -- they are all poisoned and lifeless. There is none here who could do this thing. Nay, even an army could not do it."

Legolas leapt once more to his feet, tossing his golden, flowing hair back as he spoke.

"Lord Elrond says the Ring must be destroyed. Which part of that simple sentence did you not understand?"

Gimli, who had managed to slink back to his chair while the others were staring at the ground now threw himself to his feet in a rage.

"Oh, and you believe yourself to be the one appointed to the task? If you think I will stand by while another Ring of Power is placed in the hands of an Elf, you are sorely mistaken, Master Elf! We Dwarves remember what happened last time. Elves are not to be trusted!"

At this not-very-veiled insult, several of the younger Elves leapt to their feet in a manner not at all silent and began to yell at the Dwarf, whose companions quickly tumbled out of their chairs and onto the council floor to defend him. The Men also rose and joined in as arguments broke out around the circle.

The discord rose as the debate rapidly descended into a veritable babel of languages. A few of the eldest Elves argued in Enya, the ancient, musical language of the Elves. Others pressed their points in Cinderon, the everyday, yet melodious form of Elvish. The walls rang with insults bellowed in Kudzchuid, the just-plain-ugly language of the Dwarves, impossible to pronounce correctly without a beard. Boromir and his kind held forth in Westronic, the middle-aged and rather nasal language of the Men of Gondor (they don't call it the "Common Tongue" just because everybody speaks it, you know).

And through it all, emanating from the band of evil resting on the pedestal in their midst, slithered the Black Tongue, the not-aging-gracefully, twelve-tone language of Mordor, which Gandalf had refused to utter in Bag End in front of Frodo some weeks earlier because he had never been able to get the quarter tone intervals right since smoking that tainted batch of South Farthing pipeweed back in 2967.

And beneath even that oily whispering could be heard faint, keening wails of Hystryonik, the very young and not-for-sensitive-ears language of the Kanónikals, which can still be heard now and again to this very day when I tell my tales.

Finally, Menethôlwen rose slowly to her feet.

"Enough!"

The sweetness and sorrow in the crystalline tones of her powerful voice cut through the din, silencing all in the council circle. 

Elrond took advantage of the lull to signal one of the house guards to ring the bell closing the Council.

"Friends, we are all weary and strained by the presence of the object which so vexes us. Retire, each of you, to your chambers for the afternoon. I must consider all that has been said here and decide who shall take the Ring to Mordor. I will summon you in the morning, at which time we will resume our council. For now, go forth and rest, then make ready for the feast I have arranged in honor of your visit to Imladris. Tonight will be a night to remember, I promise you!"

As Elrond spoke, Erestor gestured to the house guards to escort the visitors to their rooms, ensuring that the remainder of the afternoon would pass without further incident. The visitors moved off in groups of twos and threes under the watchful eyes of the guards, some Dwarves and Men still muttering under their breath, but none willing to anger their host. For all had heard of the splendor of the feasts of Imladris, and none wished to be kept in his room without dinner on this night.

Rubbing the bridge of his aquiline nose, Elrond retired to his study to consider the problem before him. Menethôlwen and Gandalf accompanied him, as did Erestor, Elladan and Elrohir (the twins and the ferrets). The tiger and the eagle waited outside, preferring to pass the hours dozing in the afternoon sun. At a nod from Glorfindel, a contingent of guards took up watch over the evil talisman of doom. Satisfied the Ring was secure for the time being, the twice-born Balrog slayer headed for the study to join the discussion.

Once all were settled comfortably in the cool, candlelit confines of Elrond's inner sanctum, a long debate ensued. Pros and cons were listed, scenarios explored, lessons of history recalled, lore recited and scrolls consulted. When at dusk, no progress had been made toward reaching an actual decision, Menethôlwen could hold her tongue no longer.

"Enough, I say again! It is really quite simple, Elrond. Frodo must take the Ring to Mordor, which means Sam will go. Gandalf, you must accompany Frodo, for he does not know the way, and Sam wouldn't know his way past Farmer Maggot's scarecrow."

Gandalf cocked his head, then nodded.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir, son of Denethorc, must also go, for the Race of Men is weak, so you must send at least two of them to get the strength of one Númenorian of the elder days."

Glorfindel looked at his fingers for a moment, counting, then nodded.

"Gimli, son of Glowing, you shall send, so the Dwarves do not decide to launch a war on Imladris for excluding them from the party."

Elladan and Elrohir, the twins, nodded emphatically, for they already had their hands full patrolling the borders of Imladris on the lookout for Orcs.

"Legolas Thrandroolian, Prince of Mirkwood, also will go, for reasons that are quite frankly none of your business."

Elrond arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"And for the love of the Valar, send Merry and Pippin before even poor, sweet Lindir is driven to Hobbit-slaying by their ceaseless antics."

Erestor nodded so vigorously that his braid came partly undone.

Menethôlwen rose to her feet.

"Now, could we please get on with dinner? I am famished after listening to you Elves prattle on endlessly with your analyses. 'Tis no wonder the rest of the Races of Middle-earth question the value of the counsel of the Elves: they do not live long enough to hear the final decisions!"

The Elves looked at each other, all of them blushing to their elegant eartips. Elrond was the first to break the embarrassed silence.

"You are right, of course, _leering mire_ [lovely one], as ever. It is good that you are once again among us to make clear to us the errors of our ways."

He stood and held out his arm to her.

"Come, let us enjoy the feast Erestor has arranged, and then we will dance as we once did in the clearings in the woods of Imladris."

o o o o o o o o o o

The next morning, all were summoned once more to the no-longer-secret meeting place of the Council. When everyone had arrived and settled into their seats, most of them still somewhat somnolent from the feasting and merrymaking of the night before, Elrond rose.

"After much careful reflection, it has been decided that a party representing all the goodly races of Middle-earth shall take the Ring to Mordor. I ask that each person stand forth as his name is called."

And so the list was read. When those chosen stood before him, he raised his hand in blessing.

"Nine there are. Nine Walkers. Yes, it is a fitting number. You shall be the Nine Companions, creatures of Arda who --"

Menethôlwen cleared her throat and stood.

"Ten, _need mail lawn_ [my friend]. There shall be Ten Companions."

She moved to stand in front of the others, facing them.

"My friends, we shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

(To be continued)

o o o o o o o o o o

****

Notes:  


Happy birthday Casey! Here's sm Bory 4 u!!!!! there will b mor - I pwomise!!!!

Hey, Jastaelf! Hope u r feelin better now! I put a cpl things in here special 4 u, like ur hunky Elfsmith, Aikalerion from "Dark Leaf." [Peeps, if u havn't read that story, u gotta go read it NOW at the Edhellond Archive, www.freewebs.com/edhellond. It is SOOOOO awesome!!!! Poooooooooor Leggy!!!!! gives BIG hug to Leggy] Hugs 2 u 2 Jasta!!!!!

August DuMonte, I can't bLEEV u don't lik Bory!!!! Bory is SOOOOOO hot!!!! Rit, Casey? wink nudge giggle He's not rilly icky cuz it ws the Ring tht made him all mixt up n evil n stuff. [SPOILER WARNING!!!!] Thats how come Meneth n Aragorn cn still lik him even when he goz bad cuz they no its not rilly him being bad, so he isn't icky, see. But Riba, science s DEFinitly icky!!!!! Eeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww..

Soledad, glad u like Lindir and Melpomaen. they r SOOOO cute. I put more Erestor in 4 u. Don't worry: the Elladan and Elrohir ferrets and twins thing is *supposed* 2 confuz u! But that time, it was just the ferrets, not the twins. They're rilly cuddly, the ferrets r. Mayb the twins r 2 - there's shur lotsa slashfics about them!!!! Yummy!!!

Lasse-Lanta and Erunyauve, who r humphrey bogart and lauren bacall? Were they, like, Britanny Spear's backup band or smthing? U guys must be so old like at least 23?

But Lasse-Lanta, at least u kno about Beastmaster. He is SUCH a hunk w/ that cute LITTLE loincloth and all! Isn't he, Siah? Hey, I didn't know there ws a movie???? Now I haf 2 go 2 the video store 2nit 2 look 4 it!!!!!

Finch, when did Gandalf lrn 2 rite IM style? He alwayz makes me rite out all the spells 4 him in Tengwarsh, that fancy Elvish writing. IM wud b lots faster!!!

Vorondis, mor 4 u to laugh at!!!! Kiri, hope u r having fun reading! Dark Jedi Girl: kewl name!!!! Cirdan, of COURSE Glorfy still has enuf u know what! giggle He's, like, so awesome!!!!!

And Artanis: 3 R&Rs in 1 day? u are so KEWL!!!!! but I hafta ask: what s fingolfin? is it, like, an Elvish sport or smthing? Oh yeah, the other thing: I suppose I cud put in more goth, bt it wasn't in the movies so I might get in trouble 4 changing stuff. ya can't change the original script much or some peeps around here get kinda pissy ya know it's such a pain.


	7. 6 Mysterious Pasts & Strange Bedfellows

****

Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales

****

Author: Jenn - tolkanonms@yahoo.com

****

Rating: This chapter is rated R for direct and implied references to heterosexual sex involving a Ninni, an Elf and a Vala, though not all of them at once. (And no, I won't tell you where the good bits are - you'll just have to read the story if you want to find them. sticks tongue out) The tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean restricted or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).

****

Disclaimer: See the Prologue.

****

Feedback: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

****

Archiving: Edhellond. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

****

Author's note: Sorry I made u weight so long. RL was getting me down. But I think I haf a job now maybe, so pretty soon, I cn get the new DVD 'n maybe even some of the way kool action figures. (Guess which one I want most?!!!) Anyhoo, here's another chapter. It's a biggy, so b sher u hav lots of pixie stix 'n skittles to munch on, 'kay?

This one goes out 2 my way cool friend Soledad 4 her BIRTHDAY! Hey Soledad: Happy Birthday!!!! I hope u like this one. It has Brimby 'n Meneth 'n sex, 'n Glorfy 'n Erestor 'n Lindir, too. Lotsa nummy Elves 4 u! Enjoy!!!! Love, joy 'n sour skittles 2 u 4 the next yeer! Plus all the hunky Elves u can handle! wink wink giggle giggle WHEEEE!!!!

(Hey Peeps: check out Soledad's AWESOME stories about gorgeous Elves like Elrond and Celeborn and Haldir and hunky Men like Bory and Aragorn, and even the Dwarves. They're rilly, rilly good stories, even tho they don't haf a Ninni in them, with lots of action 'n good characters 'n mysteries 'n stuff. U can find them here on ff.net (ID 173902). Or u can go to her website. There's a link on her ff.net biopage. Big Hint: there's some extra stuff there that can't get put on ff.net! Go look 'n don't forget to review!!!!)

SPEW WARNING for Levade and the other peeps hu hav spit up on their screens 'n keybords.

****

Chapter 6 - Mysterious Pasts and Strange Bedfellows

Welcome back, my friends! You have been away so long! But then summer is a time of travel and adventure, of course, so I have been patient, knowing that with the shortening of the days, you would return once more to hear further adventures from the tale I have been unfolding before you. Oh yes! There is plenty more to be told, enough to last us all the long, dark nights of winter -- you shall not be disappointed, I assure you. So pass me a bit of your evening's snack and settle down.

You may recall -- if you do, then just sit quietly and be patient and I shall get to the new part soon, and if you do not recall, then sit quietly as well and I shall remind you -- that when last you visited, we learned the secret meaning of Menethôlwen's violet eyes. It is she who has the strongest claim to the Throne of Gondor, stronger even than that of Aragorn, who has grey eyes and is descended of the line of Isildur. (And I'm certain we need not go into exactly how deficient _that_ particular bloodline has proven to be over the years!)

When we ended our story, the brave and lovely Menethôlwen had just declared that she and the other nine Walkers would be known as the Fellowship of the Ring. Well, since that time -- the time in our story, not the time since we ended our story last time you were here -- preparations have been underway for the departure of the Fellowship, which Elrond had declared would be seven days after the Ten were chosen.

Isn't that a somewhat precipitous departure for such a perilous quest, you ask? Well, yes, it was, I suppose. But you must understand that housing all those visiting Men and Dwarves and even the rather uncouth Wood Elves was quite taxing for the household of the Lord of Imladris. Now, hush! I know already what you will say: what of the famed hospitality of the Last Homely House? Well, truth be told, the upset over the revelation that Aragorn was not, in fact, the true Heir to the Throne of Gondor, had resulted in another flare-up of an internecine power struggle that had plagued Imladris since the return of the then-barely-reborn Balrog Slayer, Glorfindel, in the Second Age. Since you obviously have not been privvy to the seamier side of life in Imladris, I shall digress for a moment to explain, as the circumstances may have some bearing on my tale in times to come. And even if they don't, it makes for great gossip, as you shall see.

o o o o o o o o o o

Lindir paused outside the closed door to the Elrond's study and sighed. Erestor and Glorfindel were at it again. And not for the first time, he knew. Stories of their never-ending sniping had reached his ears in the first days after he set foot in Imaldris, known to many, although not to him at that time, as Rivendell.

The Bengal tiger who had padded along at his side after being dismissed by the beast's mistress and Lindir's beloved friend, Menethôlwen, growled quietly. Lindir smiled sadly and patted the magnificent creature on the head.

"Worry not, my friend. They have been worrying this knot since the day the Master of Imladris tied it by refusing to admit he made a mistake. They are both bound to this fate, this one doom, and I fear they shall carry this battle with them beyond even the Western Seas."

He paused to reflect a moment. The huge cat seated himself and began licking one of his massive paws.

"Or perhaps not. After all, I don't suppose Elrond will have need for a Seneschal of Imladris once he is no longer in Imladris."

Cheered immensely by his sudden insight, Lindir settled himself against the wall and began to compose a humorous lay that he would sing to tease the two Elves once they'd all arrived safely in Elvenhome.

Meanwhile, the voices inside the room rose to a volume that would have been audible even to a human in the hallway, had there been any present to hear them. Erestor's sharp tenor was the first to breach the wooden door.

"I alone held the title in the earliest days, so I am the more senior member of the household staff, therefore, I am the true Seneschal of Imaldris. And as a responsible seneschal devoted to my duties, I find this whole business about Estel or Viggogorn or whatever he's called these days being apparently not the heir apparent very distressing. It has completely spoiled all my seating charts for the rest of the feasts, not to mention several themed parties I had planned to keep the Dwarves sufficiently entertained indoors that they'll do no further damage to the gardens with their drunken revels."

Glorfindel replied swiftly, his golden baritone dripping with false sympathy, "How perfectly awful for you: all your carefully made plans gone awry! It is so very unfair of the Valar to disrupt your parties and placecards with such trivial matters as the future of all of Middle-earth."

He snorted before continuing, the saccharine now gone from his tone.

"Well it is, then, that while you've been fussing over party plans, I have been carrying out such vital duties as seeing to the security of the Vile Object that is the reason for this gathering of the Races of Arda. But it is to be expected that the most important tasks should fall to me, isn't it? Elrond's refusal to correct his mistaken entry in the house staff roster cannot disguise the fact I am, in fact, far older than you and thus the more senior member of the household, and so I am by all rights the real seneschal."

Erestor's pitch and voice rose another notch.

"Nay, my body is older than the one you now wear, so it is I who am the more senior."

Glorfindel replied sharply: "I am twice-born, which makes me twice the Elf you are and so I am the more senior!"

Erestor sneered, "Nay, your death and rebirth makes you but half the Elf you were, as your essence has been split across two bodies."

Through clenched teeth, Glorfindel ground out: " I am neither two Elves nor half an Elf, but one and the same Elf, and if I may say so, I am more of an Elf than you will ever be!"

"Says who?"

"Says me!"

"You and who else? Or is it just the both of the one of you talking to yourselves, per usual? Must get very confusing! No wonder you can't understand the heavy responsibilities that go with being Seneschal of Imladris!"

The tiger at the door perked his ears up as Glorfindel let out a low growl.

"Well, since you've been celibate most of your life and are now bound to one who came to you innocent and untouched, I guess there is none who could speak on your behalf, now is there? Thus, the debate goes to me, for there are many, among them the lovely Menêtholwen herself, who will dreamily vouch for just how much of an Elf I am."

Lindir straightened up, judging it to be time for him to intervene. Opening the door and stepping in quickly with the tiger at his heels, he brightly chirped, "Oh there you are! Erestor, _kneed melba_ [my love], Elrond wants to see you about the plans for tonight. The Dwarves were frolicking in his private garden last night, but I assured him you have a plan for stopping that nonsense. And Glorfindel, I heard Menethôlwen was asking after you. Something about the Shards of Narsil, I think."

And because Lindir was a good deal more clever and observant than most of Imladris gave him credit for being, he had known exactly what to say to cause the two elder Elves to immediately forget their fight and get back to their duties. After all, they really were fine old Elves, both of them, devoted to the service of Elrond. It was just that the pesky organizational chart turned their minds now and again. Fortunately, Lindir understood just how to refocus their thoughts and thus draw out their better natures once more.

Content to have restored peace in at least one bit of Arda before noon, Lindir led the tiger out to the garden to enjoy the morning sun and to enjoy the quiet while it lasted. He knew better than to think it would endure.

o o o o o o o o o o

So you see now why Elrond found it expedient to end the famous Council and be rid quickly of the extra guests, especially those whose respective standings relative to the Throne of Gondor had so recently been reshuffled. Menethôlwen vascillated between sharp-tongued remarks and tragic silences, and seeing his former lover suffer so was almost more than he could bear. As for Aragorn, while the would-have-been King of Men had put up a good front in the Council, his incessant whining after hours in Elrond's private quarters was wearing on the Elf's nerves. And poor Boromir, realizing that he would never be Steward of Gondor now that there were two living Heirs to the Throne, had sunk into a morose gloom. He spent most of his nights haunting the back hallways and passages of Imladris, where he had on one occasion badly startled Elrond, who mistook him for a vision of the ghost of Elendil, whom Elrond had befriended back in the days of the Last Alliance. Yes, Elrond was eager indeed to get his guests on the road.

After some inquiries, Glorfindel found Menethôlwen in the Library of Imladris. She stood in silent contemplation before a statue of the one of the most beloved of the Valar, Yannabanana, Giver of Fruits, who held in her marble tray the Shards of Narsil.

Narsil was, of course, the ill-fated sword wielded by the equally ill-fated Elendil against the not-yet ill-fated Sauron upon whose armor the sword broke, a shard of which sword was taken up by the soon-to-be ill-fated Isildur and used to cut the One Ring from the hand of the then apparently ill-fated Sauron, who, as you all know, was, in fact, not entirely ill-fated at that point, but rather merely grossly inconvenienced for an extended period of time by the loss of his corporeal existence. And the significance of the solemnity with which Menethôlwen contemplated the Shards was not lost on Glorfindel.

"Aye, _leering mire_ [lovely one], what has so captured your thoughts that you do not notice my footsteps approaching?"

"Nay, _penny hour_ [ancient one], I heard you, but my heart is heavy with memories whose footsteps draw me into another time. You know whereof I speak."

"Nay, _lotsa breath mean_ [listen to me], Menethôlwen, you must not dwell on the past, but look to the future now. For even in these dark times, we still have _estel_, do we not?"

"Aye, _ye hour smelleth knee_ [my ancient beloved], we have Estel, as you call him. And that is well, for I cannot see all ends and do not know how long my time in this body may last."

"Nay, _teething gerkin_ [my little heart], I speak not of Aragorn, but of the naked trust that is in our very being and abides even in the face of despair, the hope that the Music of El Hoover-Tar is a song that will never end for his Children."

"Aye, _mall thin nail_ [golden one], you are right. While we live, we have _estel_."

They stood silent for several minutes, each lost in thoughts of Ages past and the possibilities of Ages to come.

Suddenly, the Ninni straightened her shoulders. She took off her shawl and reached to gather up the Shards of Narsil, speaking briskly to her companion.

"For the moment, we also have Estel, and he will have need of this sword. I'm off to the forge, _kneed mail lawn_ [my friend]. I shall see you this evening in the Halls of Fire."

o o o o o o o o o o 

After dismissing all the other smiths in the forge, Menethôlwen unwrapped the Shards of Narsil, which she had hidden in her shawl to avoid the notice of prying eyes. She laid the pieces on the anvil, stoked the furnace fire and began laying out the tools she would need.

When all was ready, she walked a wide circle that encompassed the furnace, the anvil and the cooling tub, calling on the Valar to grant her success in the work that lay before her. And as she stood before the anvil, she was not surprised to hear the voice of one of the Vala, Olay, Lord of the Smith.

"Greetings, Menethôlwen of the Ninnir! You are grown yet more beautiful than when last I saw you, those many _Yanni_ [Elven centuries, which are 144 human years each] ago. Truly, the purest gold, silver and copper are spun into the luscious tumble that is your lovely hair!"

"Greetings, Lord of the Smith! You honor me with your presence and flatter me with your admiration. Have you come to guide my hand?"

The Vala stepped forth from the shadows and laughed, a rich, bass chuckle emanating from his muscular chest, and smiled indulgently at the Ninni, saying, "Can the Lord of the Smith not visit his favorite pupil without being put to work?"

Then, reading grim purpose in her beautiful, violet eyes, his expression turned serious. 

"You would take upon yourself the mending of That Which Was Broken, my little Olayendil?"

"Yes, Lord Smith. And glad am I indeed to see you, for it may be that I shall have need of your aid in this task."

Olay shook his head and smiled gently.

"Nay, you do not need my help in matters of the forge. Your modesty cannot hide your talent for the working of metals. So remarkable was your craftwork that I was moved to make you the eighth Olayendil, even though my original plan called for but seven, for it was only right and seemly that you should join the ranks of the Olayendi. After all, your skills exceeded even those of the kin of Faywraynor."

At the mention of the name of the maker of the Silmarils, the Ninni paled. Olay bowed his head.

"Forgive me, dear Ninni. I know how painful it is for you to call to mind Faywraynor and his kinsmen. One in particular."

She shook her head, refusing to meet the Vala's eyes.

"Nay, Lord Smith, it is not the memory of Celebrimbor that aggrieves me, but rather the memory of what I allowed him to do."

Olay sighed heavily.

"Menethôlwen, you were not to blame for his actions. You did all you could to turn him from the false glimmer of the Foul One, but in his guise as Annatar, Sauron deceived even the wisest among the Elves of Eregion. That they did not heed your warnings regarding his true nature was their failure, not yours."

"Still," the Ninni said firmly, "I should have stopped him."

Olay shook his head once again. "Nay, I tell you surely, little one, there was none who could stop Celebrimbor once he'd set his mind to do something. Not even I, who made him what was to have been the last of the Olayendi when he was but a child, could wield that power without breaking him utterly. You must let go this guilt, this dark secret you carry within, lest it consume you as the flames of Oroduin once consumed your flesh!"

Perceiving that his words were having no effect, he tenderly put two fingers under her chin and lifted her face to meet his steady gaze.

"You mean to go through with this, then? You mean to reforge Narsil by your own hand and using your own magics?"

"Yes, Lord Smith. It is the least I can do."

Olay sighed one last time. Gently, he loosened the laces on the tunic she was wearing, sliding the garment off her right shoulder. He stared into her eyes intently for several heartbeats, awaiting her assent. When she finally nodded -- the barest tilt of her head -- he turned her away from him.

For a moment, she was transported in memory to the night the Vala had made her an Olayendil, a Lover of Olay. The encounter had begun in a forge, of course. The Lord of the Smith had appeared just as she put the finishing touches on a stunningly complex piece of metalwork: an orb of silver containing a rainbow's worth of rare jewels, each resembling a flower on a delicate vine, the whole of the piece bound together by golden filigree as fine as silken spider's thread. Her stunning artistry had moved Olay to deep passion, and so at that moment, he decided he would take one more master smith into his embrace, both for that night and for all time.

When, many hours later, they had abandoned the tables and benches and floors of the forge for the softness of her bed, Olay had raised her up at the moment of his release and placed a kiss on her shoulder. And from the depths of the burning passions the Ninni had stoked within the Vala came a sacred fire that seared the sign of the hammer and anvil into her skin, marking her as a Lover of Olay.

How very long ago it all seemed to her now.

Sensing she was lost in memory once more, Olay recalled her to the present by kissing her shoulder, renewing upon her new body the mark he had once bestowed upon her previous form's flesh during that long ago, but never forgotten night of love. He breathed words of comfort into her ear:

"You will not fail this time, my Little Olayendil."

And then he was gone, like wood smoke into shadows.

Menethôlwen touched the still-warm mark on her shoulder and sighed softly.

"May it be, Lord Smith. May it be."

The furnace was well heated by this time, and seeing this was so, the Ninni took up a pair of tongs and began to heat the first of the sword pieces to be rejoined. When the metal glowed bright red, she stepped to the anvil and selected a heavy hammer for the first rough working. The steady ringing of hammer on metal lulled her into a light trance. And thus while her hands and body worked steadily, guided by her instinctive awareness of the needs of the metals, her mind wandered back to the Second Age, the last time she had set foot in a forge.

The memories called by the pounding of metal on metal were not kindly visitors. Indeed, they tore at her heart, for they held the very deepest secrets of her tortured past, a past so well hidden that not even Elrond knew of it, which is why the Loremaster did not tell of it in the lengthy recitation of her history he gave to his sons. A past so dark, it had led her to give herself the harsh epessë "Anangadae," meaning "Long Iron Shadow, a name she used whenever she travelled among strangers, so she would not forget.

After all, it was because of her that the Rings of Power had been made: the Seven Rings of the Dwarves, which remained hidden; the Nine (or Ten) Rings of Men, which had already corrupted their bearers and made them into Nazgûl; and the Three Rings of the Elves, all of which Sauron now sought to control by taking possession of the One Ring. All of it was her fault.

A single droplet of sweat fell into her eye, startling her back into the present long enough to see the worked metal was ready to be cooled. As she plunged the piece into the vat, a cloud of steam arose, and she was swept back to her memories of the Second Age.

o o o o o o o o o o

When Menethôlwen returned to Middle-earth the second time to guide the construction of the city of Eregion, she soon took to her bed Celebrimbor, grandson of Faywraynor and himself an Olayendi. She did so, not only because his handsome face, red hair and firmly-muscled body delighted her (although they did so without fail), but because Celebrimbor still carried a torch (well, a Faywraynorian lantern, really) for Galadriel, whom he called Artanis, who was happily married to Celeborn. And Menethôlwen still had feelings for Celeborn, who was happily wedded to Galadriel, whom he called Altáriel.

So it was that Menethôlwen, whom Celebrimbor called Meneth, and Celebrimbor, whom Menethôlwen called Brimby, found comfort in each other's arms and beds, as well as various and sundry other parts and places. Menethôlwen had hair of molten gold back then, and when they lay together, its strands would intermingle with the fiery red hair of Celebrimbor like veins of gold running through pure copper. Hers was the cool pool of water in which he tempered his heated steel, and his was the fiery metal that called forth her steamy passion. And in the warmth of each other's arms, their hearts turned toward each other, and love grew in the space between.

Yet never did their _fetar_ [spirits] merge. Celebrimbor had decided many centuries before that the line of Faywraynor and the curse it carried must die with him, and so, despite the pleasures the Ninni and the Smithy took in each other, Celebrimbor never gave himself over completely to his passion for fear of conceiving a child.

However, so great was his secret desire to form a soul-bond with his beloved Ninni that he ignored her warnings and accept the tutelage of Lord Annatar, who he hoped would teach him to forge a Ring of Power that could lift the Doom placed upon his House or at least provide reliable contraception. It was only when Annatar left on a journey (unbeknownst to the Elves, he was on his way to Mordor to forge the One Ring) that the illusions spun by the corrupted Maia faded from Celebrimbor's mind, and he finally realized the truth of Annatar's nature and evil intentions. Shaken to his core by what he had done for Annatar in making the Rings (seven and nine or ten), he confessed his deeds and the motive behind them to Menethôlwen.

The Ninni was moved by the depths of his love and regret, and she agreed to help him forge Rings of Power for the Elves. These Rings would be untainted by the touch of Annatar and so might provide some defense for the Elves in the dark times that must surely lie ahead. Using her magic to create a living fog, she hid Celebrimbor's forge from the evil Maia's senses. The effort required her to sink into a deep trance, and she knew not how much time passed, but when she awakened, Celebrimbor showed her the Three -- Nenya, Varya and Naria.

Now here is where the story gets very interesting. Unbeknownst to Menethôlwen, Celebrimbor had made a fourth Ring. (Or twentieth or twenty-first, depending on how you look at it -- the only son of Curuffian made a lot of rings.)

At first, he kept it secret from her, hoping against hope that the day would come when the Elves would triumph, the Curse would be lifted, and he would be free to wed his beloved Ninni at last. However, when Celebrimbor learned that, despite their efforts, Sauron had detected the existence of the Three and was coming to take them by force, he realized his own doom was near. He gave Menethôlwen the Three and begged her to see them safely into the hands of whichever Elves she felt could best protect them and use them wisely.

Then, on the night before she was to flee Eregion, they made love for what they both knew would be the last time. As they lay together afterward, he brought forth the fourth Ring, saying, "'Tis a gift for you, _leering mire_ [lovely one], for you alone have seen through the pain and anger into the deepest places of my heart and brought me joy and comfort. While I could never give you my heart, I would have you keep something wrought by mine own hands, something for you to wear when at last you find true love with one who can return your love in full measure. My love will be added to his, and thus our own bond shall be completed through his love for you. And when you return again to the Waters of Arda, mayhap we shall be together again, should Nano ever release me from his Walls of Mangos."

Menethôlwen accepted the Fourth Ring of the Elves and pledged that never would she wear it until her heart found true love for another. Then she wept in the arms of her beloved Celebrimbor, and if some of the tears that fell were not hers, who among us would fault the son of Curuffian?

At dawn, she rode forth to find Elrond and begin preparations for building a haven for the Elves in Imaldris, as you heard before in my telling of Elrond's telling of the history of the Ninni. She took with her the Three, and in her journeying, brought Narya, the Red Rain Ring, to Círdan, her first lover; Nenya, the Ring of Atom Ant, to Galadriel, the wife of her third lover, Celeborn; and Vilya, the Ring of Sappho, to Gil-Galad, the lover of her lover-to-be, Elrond.

As for Celebrimbor, his doom was already set, and he met with a very nasty ending at the hands of his former teacher before passing on into the more merciful hands of Nano.

o o o o o o o o o o

The chill of a late afternoon breeze brought Menethôlwen back to the present. She found that her hands had continued to do their work even as her mind had wandered. Before her on the bench sat Narsil, the sword that had cut the One Ring from the hand of Sauron the Deceiver, now once again made whole.

But as an Olayendi, one who hears the Music of the Metals in the song of El Hoover-Tar, she knew a sword can never truly be remade. In the reforging, something is lost and something added, and so it must be engraved anew and renamed. And so she traced upon the blade the sun and the moon and many runes of power, singing under her breath as she magically etched the ancient symbols into the metal. Finally, she emblazoned the blade with the Valley Circle, the seven stars of the Sickle of the Valar.

All that remained was to rename the weapon. As she prepared to invoke the blessing of Olay, the Lord of the Smith, she paused, suddenly uncertain about the path she had chosen. What name should the Sword Once Broken But Now Remade bear as it went forth to settle its unfinished business with Sauron the Deceiver?

Then it came to her. Underhill. The sword's name would be Underhill, for it carried under its shining surface the dark secret of her past. And perhaps in its wielding, this newly reborn sword would finally grant her release her from her shame.

(To be continued)

o o o o o o o o o o

****

Notes:  
Casey, I'm glad you liked your prezzie! Vaque Lenore - thanks for the review! Marnie 'n Kitty 'n Lily Lupin: have u guys been peeking at my outlines? How did you know about Eomer and the Earl of Young and the snow 'n stuff? grin And Lasse-Lanta, ya got your "more Glorfy!!!"

As for Erunyauve, the Purits and Gil Shalos, well, all I can say is well, Not Nice stuff. I rilly rilly like Menethôlwen, and everybody else should, too, cuz she's so awesome and beautiful and talented and smart. But she is NOT a Mary Sue, 'kay? NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT. So there! And all you losers who say she is r just saying that cuz I'm getting laid and you aren't. (Well, Menethôlwen is getting laid, so that's, like, the same thing, right?)

Vorondis, I sneeked in a li'l sumthing 4 u, 2. Didja catch it? (Peeps: if ya wanna read a rilly kool story 'bout the Elves in the old times -- like, back b4 the movies -- go read Vorondis' story, "Mortal Shores" at Henneth Annun cuz its rilly good 'n it has GLORFY in it!!!! Plus Gill-glud 'n Gladriel 'n Celeborn. And a rilly hot Elfie she made up all by herself, Tárion - SQUEAL!!!!)

Hey Finch, I no u like an Elf named Thinrod, but he iznt in the movie credits so I don't no who he iz. But Brimby is an old Elf 2, so I hope he was hot enuf 4 u. Cuz he does use fire for his work, rit? - ha ha!!!!! Thanks for all that stuff about Fingolfball. I'm not much in2 sports, but it sounds kool. I wonder if PJ will put it in the third movie????

Círdan, didja like the Brimby scenes 'n all that stuff about the forge? I hope it cheered u up a bit. Hey, peeps, if ya wanna read some rilly kewl stories about Brimby, check out Círdan's stories at Edhellond and here on ff.net (ID 210427). I got the idea for the magic mark from her fic, "Music of the Metals." Check out that one 'n all her other stories on her webpage, too! Ya know, that reminds me: Aerlinnel has an awesome story 'bout Brimby and Gladdy called, "Aftermath of Fire." It's rilly sad, but good, so check it out here on ff.net (her ID is 78472).


	8. 7 Mysteries Not Yet Past

**Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales**

**Author**: Jenn/Tolkanonms (e-mail is in my profile)

**Rating**: This chapter is rated R for sexual content in the form of what I believe to be two firsts in the world of fanfiction: 1) a sex scene (male/male) rendered in one sentence of massively parallel construction, and 2) a sex scene (male/female) presented in bullet list format.

What? You don't like parallel construction because all those semicolons and the absence of verbs make you uncomfortable? Can't stand bullet lists because they remind you of the boss' PowerPoint presentation at work today? Well, then don't read those bits! There will be a little warning of sorts to tell you when to skip ahead.

The tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean restricted or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).

**Disclaimer**: See the Prologue.

**Feedback**: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

**Archiving**: Edhellond, Gildor's Library. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

**Author's note:** I no it's been, like, 4EVER, even more than a year since I updated, but I was, like, SOOOO upset I just cudn't rite for the longest time. I mean, it was just SOOOOO sad! It was bad enough when Boromir died in the first movie. But then Haldir got killed! (SOB!)! I just couldn't bee-LEEV it! An' then there was the third movie, which was rilly cool! But then I herd there wudn't be n-e-more sequels gasp! and I was just SOOOO sad 4 a long time.

I want more Leggy! I herd their will b an extended-DVD out soon, so u can b shur I'll be first in line at the mall that day! 50 more minutes of LEGGY!

Hey, this girl at school sez Haldir didn't die at Helm's Deep in the book for the second movie! "The Elves don't even, like, GO to Helm's Deep in the book," she said. Can u b-LEEV that! The writer left that scene out! That is just so stoooooopid! I hate it when the writers don't stick to the script, ya know? PJ should have hired somebody else if that Tolkeen guy was going to mess around with his plot so much. It was such a kewl scene! Until he died N-E-ways. And of course I lurrrrrrrrrve Haldy. He's sooooooooo sexy in that red cloak. Yummy! So maybe I won't buy the regular 2nd DVD 'n just get the book where Haldy lives! But I'm gonna get the extended DVD fer shur 'cuz I think Eomer is HOT! May b Glorfy wil b in it 2 4 U, Lasse-Lanta!

And this other grrl sez PJ is going to make a prequel called The Habit, so may-b that will hav some Leggy in it! I hope so!

So, now I'm happy again 'n I can rite sm more 4 u. Here's a big shout-out to Levade and Stella: SPEW WARNING!

**Chapter 7 - Mysteries Not Yet Past and Bedfellows No Longer Strangers**

It has been so very long since last you visited! But I know that the summer has many distractions, and the hurly-burly of the daily world makes its demands on our time. Still, you are here now, and as the cool autumn air drifts in, it's a fine time to resume my tale, just as soon as I have a bit of your dinner there.

Mmm, thank you! Now, when last I told a piece of this tale, the marvelous Menethôlwen had just finished reforging Narsil, the sword that cut a ring from Sauron's hand. That ring was, of course, the One Ring, not one of the Three or Seven or Nine or Ten, and certainly not the Fourth Ring, made by Celebrimbor for his beloved Ninni. Oh no, none of those. It was The Ring, the One that Isildur declined to chuck into the flames of Oroduin, despite Menethôlwen's desperate pleas, back in the past that precedes the time which we are about to revisit, which is far in the past relative to our present time, but not as far in the past as the ring-finger removal business I just now mentioned.

And you may recall that Elrond was feeling some urgency about getting his Ten Walkers on the road to Mount Doom, mostly so the rest of the guests would have no reason to linger further in Imladris and thus could be told to shove off. Being a Loremaster, the Lord of Imladris of course phrased his request far more eloquently, not in elegant but obscure Enya, but rather in Cinderon or perhaps even in Westronic, so as to be sure that while no feelings were hurt, his meaning could not be lost in the translation.

o o o o o o o o o o

As the breakfast table was cleared, Elrond rose to his feet and rapped the table with his knife hilt, thus invoking the ancient Rúmil's Rules of Order. A silence fell across the dining hall, and all those assembled -- Elf, Man, Dwarf and Hobbit -- turned their heads to look upon the Lord of Imladris expectantly.

"Well, now! Let's review the Council agenda, shall we?"

Erestor pulled a small scroll from his pocket, preparing to check off items with a bit of charcoal as Elrond enumerated them. Seeing his rival for the title of seneschal thus engaged, Glorfindel quickly pulled a playing card -- a three of spades -- out of his sleeve and grabbed a jam spoon. Elrond shared a wry grin with Menethôlwen, rolling his eyes in the mind of his former lover, then spoke aloud.

"The Fellowship of the Ring has been chosen."

He gestured to the Ten Walkers, who rose solemnly to their feet. The guests applauded politely. Aragorn did his best to look regal while whining inside. Boromir tried to look at least somewhat noble, but gave up and slumped quickly back into a gloomy mope. Legolas did his best to look like he'd been paying attention. Gandalf didn't bother, the Istari being generally exempted from good manners. Frodo managed not to fall over his chair. Sam blushed and looked at his feet. And Merry and Pippin, noticing that no one was looking at anyone except Menethôlwen, seized the opportunity to seize a basket of breakfast rolls and stuff the warm nuggets into their pockets.

After a few moments, Elrond raised a hand for silence, and the Ten sank back into their chairs. Erestor made a charcoal checkmark on his list. Glorfindel covered one pip with a dab of jam.

"The Sword Once Broken and once named Narsil has been remade and henceforth shall be known as Underhill. Our deepest gratitude goes to our beloved Elf-friend, Menethôlwen, for devoting her unparalleled skills as an Olayendi to this demanding task."

Elrond nodded toward the Ninni and was rewarded by a quiet, but stunning smile as she rose to her feet again. The guests clapped more loudly than before and were rewarded by a muffled roar from the Bengal tiger under the table. Silence quickly fell across the hall, allowing Elven ears to hear the scratch of charcoal and the plop of another blob of jam.

"And we've finished breakfast."

Contented belches were heard from the Hobbits. Elladan and Elrohir, the twins, snickered until a stern glance from their father silenced them. Elladan and Elrohir, the ferrets, poked their heads over the edge of the table to snatch the bits of buttered toast Menethôlwen had left on her plate for them.

Glorfindel dabbed a dollop of marionberry jam on the final pip, stood up and said, "Well, that's it, then! Meeting adjourned!"

Erestor leapt to his feet, waving his list, ready to call the Twice-Born Elf out of order, but Elrond stayed them both with a sharp gesture.

"Be seated, gentlemen! There is one more bit of business to attend to: The Parting Words. We shall temporarily adjourn the meeting and reconvene in one hour at the gates opening onto the path leading to the bridge crossing the river going out to the sea."

After the Ten had filed out of the hall to finish packing, the Imladris Elves rose and hastened out to claim the best vantage points around the outer courtyard from which to view the departure ceremony. The Elves of Mirkwood quickly made to follow their kinfolks' tracks, while the Men and Dwarves each huddled with their own kind trying to decipher the location where they were to meet. Erestor sighed and sauntered over to offer directions, while Glorfindel licked a bit of jam off his finger and slipped away to ready Menethôlwen's horse for the journey ahead.

o o o o o o o o o o

The Ninni was not surprised to find Lord of the House of the Golden Flower waiting for her in the stables. It was certainly not the first time they'd met there, although it had been ages -- well, Ages, actually -- since their last encounter of that sort.

Glorfindel was a tad surprised, however, to see that Menethôlwen carried with her only a sturdy staff and small, simple rucksack. Knowing the size of her wardrobe and her wish to be prepared for any occasion that might arise, he eyed the small pack with an amused grin.

"And who shall be carrying the rest of your bags, _leering mire_ (lovely one)?" he asked with a teasing lilt.

She did not deign to answer at first, busying herself with finding an apple for her current stallion. When she finally turned to speak, the Elf saw in her eyes that she had slipped away -- ahead, actually, but he could not know that -- to the life she had once led in Iowa in the future, which is now the past in our tale, coming as it did earlier in the account, but which was, chronologically speaking, sometime well after the Fourth Age, whilst our story, the main bit of anyway, takes place in the present, which is the Third Age, which was, of course, well before the time in which I am speaking to you now.

"Using spider silk and bellows from the forge, I have fashioned a device revealed to me in the magical boxes filled with words and moving pictures sent through the air into my childhood home in the far future. It is called a 'Vac-n-Pac-as-Seen-on-TV,' and it permits one to fit many, many possessions into a small package with nary a wrinkle."

In his many long years with the Ninni, Glorfindel, wise Elder Elda that he was, had learned not to think too hard about the strange things that occasionally sprang forth from the mouth and mind of Menethôlwen. He simply accepted her words and actions as another part of her magical powers, and he loved her all the more for it. So it was without thinking much at all that he reached forward to draw her into his arms. She drew away quickly and turned her back.

"Nay, _ye hour smelleth knee_ (my ancient beloved), our time together was in the distant past. There have been others in times more recently past, and now in this present life, having returned from the future that was my childhood just passed, I sense that my heart will be given to another in the near future. Let our love be untainted by wounded feelings in the present, for we will always have Cuiviénen."

Glorfindel smiled and nodded. As the maiden Ninni turned to lead her horse out of the barn, the golden sunlight danced across her silken hair, catching the strands of gold, silver and copper and setting them to sparkling like the bright notes of a piano, which of course would not be invented for several Ages to come, but that's what it looked like, so that is how I shall describe it.

When his former lover was safely out of sight, Glorfindel sighed once more and headed up to see the Fellowship off. As he slowly walked the path, the Twice-Born Elf, who was also known as the Lord of the House of the Golden Tenor, allowed a snippet of a sorrowful song to drift from his lips:

"Go tell your baby sister  
Never do as you have done,  
But shun that House in new Imladris  
They call the Golden Flower!"

And because Glorfindel was the only Elf thus far -- past, present or future -- to have returned from the Walls of Mangos, there was far more of Doom to his little ancient Enya ditty than you might now realize, even if it didn't quite rhyme in the translation.

o o o o o o o o o o

Those Men, Elves and Dwarves who had been at the morning meeting were gathered around the gate. Well, some of them were there. Several Men from Dunlending were still wandering lost among the many rivers and many more bridges of Imladris seeking the place described in Elrond's rather vague directions. Most of the Dwarves were likewise absent. Having already given Gimli a stern lecture the night before about the dangers of trusting Elves, they could not be bothered with sticking around just to wave goodbye, so they had departed as soon Erestor was looking the other way.

Elrond said a few words in the ancient, musical Elvish tongue of Enya, then lifted his hands and waved the Company forth.

As the Ten crossed the bridge arching over the Loudwater River, Aragorn paused to look back at his old home, the Last Homely House, for what he knew might be the last time. Seeing his sorrow and mistaking it for doubt, the Hobbits began to feel a little anxious.

Seeing their worry, Menethôlwen patted Merry and Pippin each on one shoulder, drew a deep breath and began to sing a lovely little tune, something about bridges that go over rivers that flow toward the sea and voices on winds that blow across the bridge, oneself and other folks.(1)

And, odd as it may seem, the Hobbits were much soothed by this out-of-context snippet of song, though more by her voice than by its vague content and heavy-handed literalism passing for relevance. As she led Mysterréd out the gate, Merry sighed, "Her voice is like crystal."

"Like bells," sighed Pippin.

Sam glanced uneasily at Frodo, who smiled, patted his gardener on the shoulder and murmured, "Oh, Sam."

Sam, in turn, patted the pony on the withers, saying, "Don't you worry, Bill. We'll be rid of that Ring and back home before you know it."

The eagle perched on the horse's back chortled to himself. The tiger kept pace with Boromir, to whom he had taken a liking. And the ferrets clung to Gandalf's robes as the mighty Maia strode forth to take the lead.

"This way, Companions! We have many a mile to go before we reach a town-oh!"

o o o o o o o o o o

As soon as the Ten Walkers and their animal companions were out of sight, Elrond turned to the crowd and raised his hands once again in a blessing:

"Friends of old, friends newly made -- to all, I say farewell."

And without another word, he turned and made his way toward his private study, his mind already turning to the bottle of Dorwinion he kept tucked behind the Second Age set of Encyclopaedia Ardanica.

o o o o o o o o o o

"I don't feel so good," mumbled Merry as he sank to his knees, grateful Gandalf had called a stop for the night.

"Me, neither," said Pippin, already lying on his side with his knees tucked into his chest.

Both Hobbits clutched _lemonbars_ (Elven waybread) only half-eaten, a sure sign of sickness in any Hobbit, of course.

Gandalf puffed on his pipe as he studied the other Companions for similar signs of distress. Sam was fussing over Frodo, who had tripped and fallen on his backside, dropping his _lemonbars_. The gardener picked up the fallen morsel and was about to hand it back when the Ringbearer snatched it from his hand, screaming, "Give me that!" Sam quickly retreated to finish eating his own _lemonbars_ alone at the edge of the group.

Meanwhile, Legolas and Gimli were sitting very close, each sneaking sideways glances at the other, then hurriedly looking away and blushing while nibbling on _lemonbars_. Aragorn was absentmindedly kicking a tree while smoking his pipe and chewing a bit of _lemonbars_. And Boromir, having finished his _lemonbars_ ration for the day, began sharpening his sword, the whetstone shrieking down the blade at a pitch that served only to heighten the tension in the air.

Menethôlwen, who had just finished her _lemonbars_, came to stand beside the Maia, speaking in a voice only he would hear.

"Something is not right here, Gandalf."

The wizard nodded vaguely and murmured, "Mmm, yes, I was just thinking that myself. I think I'll go into the woods and take a little nap now. You keep an eye on things, eh?" And with that, he vanished into the trees, taking a bit of _lemonbars_ with him.

"Stop that infernal noise NOW!"

At the bellow of a Mannish voice, Menethôlwen whirled around just in time to see Aragorn brandish his sword and point it at Boromir.

The Steward's Son merely raised an eyebrow, then dragged the stone down his own blade once again. "What duty have I to obey a Ranger who will never be King?" he taunted.

With an unprintable oath in nearly unintelligible Westronic, Aragorn lunged at Boromir. The two Men set to in a display of swordsmanship the likes of which had rarely been seen in Middle-earth. They were well-matched and clearly out for blood. Menethôlwen knew she had to act quickly.

Casting a spell of sorrowful cessation and quick contrition, she cried out in her most heartrending voice. "Stop it!"

And while the younger Hobbits heard her -- Merry mumbled, "Crystal…" and Pippin, "Bells…" -- the Men seemed impervious to the sweet sorrow in her sonorous cry.

Seeing her words were going unheeded, she threw her body between the two Men's blades, meaning to shock them back to their senses.

And they did stop -- just long enough to grab both her and the lead rope from Bill's halter. Menethôlwen barely realized what was happening before she found herself tied up with her hands behind her back.

"How can it be," she asked herself, "that I, a Ninni of the Ancient World, am too weak to fight off two who are mere Men? I cast my spells, yet I might as well be nothing but the rag doll of a village moppet for all the effect they have had! My magic is no good -- I cannot focus it through the fog that fills my mind! Yet I must find a way to stop them, for they shall surely slay each other in their madness!"

Indeed, Aragorn and Boromir had already taken up their swords and were circling each other once more, each seeking an opening in the other's guard.

But as she stared at them in mounting horror, she noticed something odd: there were crumbs in both Men's beards. Had they been in Aragorn's beard only, this would have been unremarkable, but Boromir was rather proud of his beard and normally kept it clean, even when his hair was full of muck from the forest floor.

"Oh Valar!" she swore under her breath. "It must be the _lemonbars_! Someone has drugged the waybread! They have all gone mad, and I am too weak to stop them! What shall I do?"

Elladan and Elrohir, the ferrets, sensed her distress and ran to her side, chittering at her in their rodent tongue. Working quickly, they managed to loosen the rope enough to get one of her hands free, although the other remained tied securely behind her back. After all, Aragorn, being a Ranger, was very clever with knots.

With a quick nod of thanks to the ferrets, she drew her own sword, whose name and story we won't bother with just now, and launched herself into the fray. Within minutes, she brought first Boromir, then Aragorn to his knees, at which point both Men collapsed in exhaustion.

Stepping back and wiping a single drop of sweat from her flawless brow, she turned to see what had caused the Bengal tiger to growl.

Orcs!

The noise of the swordfight had drawn them to the Company. And now only Menethôlwen and her companion animals stood between Darkness and the Ring it sought!

Signalling the ferrets, the tiger, the horse and the eagle to guard Bill and the rest of the Company, the Ninni strode forward, saluting the first of the Orcs with her sword before swinging into battle, an ancient song of slaughter on her lips and one hand still tied behind her back.

It was not long before all the Orcs lay dead and scattered around the clearing. She wiped two drops of sweat from her heated, but still porcelain pale brow and, finding her mind cleared of the fog by the focus of fierce fighting, uttered magical words that brought the others out of their drugged stupor.

As Menethôlwen explained what had happened, Aragorn and Boromir stumbled over their words and each other as they rushed to apologize profusely for their unchivalrous conduct and to untie her other hand. Gimli and Legolas each slunk into the woods in opposite directions to dispose of the Orcs corpses and find Gandalf. The Hobbits, warned of the dangers of the _lemonbars_, began searching the packs and bags for other food for dinner.

After a meal eaten in near-silence, Legolas indicated he would take the first watch. The Hobbits, Gandalf and Gimli immediately settled into snore-filled sleep. Boromir lay back and closed his eyes, but sleep did not find him quickly. Aragorn, for his part, tossed and turned until he finally rose up to smoke his pipe at the edge of the woods.

Menethôlwen, who had been speaking quietly with the Elf about the mystery of the drugged _lemonbars_, sensed the Man's distress. Nodding to Legolas, she approached Aragorn and quietly suggested that he go out into the woods alone for a bit to seek solace amidst the trees.

Waiting a short while, she then awakened Boromir, saying she was concerned for Aragorn's well-being and asking Boromir to check on the Ranger.

Moved by her obvious concern, Boromir arose at once and followed the scent of pipesmoke until he came to a moonlit clearing. There, he found Aragorn seated on a flat stone by a stream, staring into its depths as if seeking wisdom in the dark waters. At a silent gesture from the Ranger, the Steward's son joined him on the cold rock. Aragorn was the first to break the awkward silence between them.

"How will I ever be a good King if I can so easily fall prey to such a simple plot to harm us?"

Boromir, startled by the vulnerability revealed by the usually unreadable Ranger, replied: "Surely, this dark magic was the work of the Elves, who live in the trees and bake the _lemonbars_ wafers. None can predict the ways of such creatures. You must not blame yourself."

Aragorn shook his head fiercely.

"You forget: I was raised among them! No Man knows their ways better than I! Yet I still cannot fathom why any among all the Elves of Arda would do such a foul thing!"

He stood and took several steps away from the water, pausing before speaking in a bitter tone.

"Surely, this inability to sense mortal danger when it must have stood before my own eyes is a sign that the weakness of Isildur's blood flows in my veins, as well!"

Boromir turned to face him, his voice urgent with his desire to recall Aragorn to his role as leader.

"Nay, Aragorn! I, too, have known the fear of the feebleness of our forefathers, but you must fight your fear! You cannot allow your mind to be racked by the wretched ruination wrought on Oroduin! The Little Ones look to you to be strong and certain. The ferrets, too."

Aragorn sighed and returned to sit next to Boromir. They sat together in silence for a time, Aragorn occasionally puffing smoke over water. When he finally set the pipe aside, his voice was weary, but calm once more.

"Boromir, you speak well and truly. You would have made a fine Steward, such is the depth of your wisdom and compassion."

Now it was Boromir's turn to sigh. He looked up at the stars shining like fire in the sky, then leaned his forearms on his thighs, his head bent, and said, "Aye, mayhap. But 'twas not meant to be, and so it is not. And so I accept the fate I am given."

After a long pause, he glanced sideways at Aragorn and raised his head, adding, "I would have been honored to have had the opportunity to welcome the return of the Man who would have been King were it not for his kinswoman many generations removed who is the rightful ruler and will sit upon the throne of Gondor when the silver trumpets sound victory for our people. For I see now that you are a noble man, one whom Destiny set apart from all others, only to snatch away the one purpose that gave meaning to his long, lonely existence."

Aragorn took the pipe from his mouth and turned toward Boromir, his face filled with wonder at the words of his former rival.

"You are right. I have felt alone, so alone all these years in the wilderness. Your words come as a great comfort to me, Boromir, Son of Denethorc."

Boromir leaned toward Aragorn, so close the Ranger could smell the leather of the Captain's jerkin. He spoke in a voice suddenly husky.

"If it is comfort you seek this night, my Lord, I would give you more than pretty words. Much more."

Isildur's Heir raised his eyes to meet those of the Steward's son. He swallowed hard, seeing not only all that was offered him, but also the reflection of his own longing in the depths of those deep green pools. His own voice suddenly hoarse with desire, he spoke but one word - "Yes!" - and reached for Boromir, drawing him into a passionate kiss.

o o o o o o o o o o

Ah! Wait! Whoa, Nelly! You two over there! Yes, you who are not yet old enough to drink ale, and you who are sticking your fingers into your ears and your tongue out at me over what has just transpired. You must step outside for a few moments, for the next part of my tale is not for the likes of either of you. Go on - out with you! And close the door. You'll be called back when I've finished this bit.

(Hey everybody! It's me, Guin! I had 2 cut part of my fic b4 I posted it here cuz of the "no NC-17" rule. If u wanna read the whole thing, u can c it at Gildor's Library. The URL s on my bio page. The story is under the stoopid name Jenn cuz I hadn't found this cool nickname yet when I signed up sticks tongue out . But don't go read it there if u r under 18 or don't like graphic stuff, cuz the version there has got slash 'n het details 'n stuff. It's kinda like an extended-DVD version scene! You R warned - hah hah hah! 'K now. Back 2 the story!)

o o o o o o o o o o

Is the door closed? Tightly? Good. Now, where were we?

Ah, yes. The passionate first kiss between the Man who would be King if not for the lovely Menethôlwen, and the Man who would be Steward if not for the lovely Menethôlwen, the handsome Aragorn and, of course, his own father's near-Númenorian lifespan. Well, it was quite a long and deep kiss, and we who remain in this room all know what such kissing leads to, don't we?

I trust, therefore, that I need not linger on the details? Suffice it to say that lips were bruised; seeking tongues granted entrance; delicate shells of ears licked (Aragorn was raised among Elves, after all); love marks made; clothes unfastened, unlaced, pushed away, pulled down and tossed aside; butterfly kisses bestowed; caresses given to muscular chests and muscular backs and muscular abdomens and muscular thighs, both outer and inner; manhoods stroked; bottles of oil produced; hips gripped; secret passages entered; thrusts made; fireworks exploded in the backs of heads; names screamed into the night; seed spilled; and sweaty, boneless bodies tangled together on the forest floor.

Refresh my water here please, lass? Ah, thank you.

Miraculously, no wild creatures heard them, else their part in our tale might have met a nasty end right then and there.

However, both the Elf and the Ninni heard them clearly: every groan, gasp, moan and whimper. And, of course, the screams. Concerned for Legolas, Menethôlwen stole a look at the Elf, who looked at his feet looking heartbroken. The Ninni spoke to him softly and sweetly in Aardvarki, the language of the Elves Who Knew the Waters of Awakening but Never Left the Woods.

"Be strong, Son of Mirkwood. All is as it must be. 'Tis their Doom to heal the breach between the lines of Arnor and Gondor, 'ere the Race of Men can be reunited under one ruler."

Leoglas looked up, tossed his hair back sadly and sighed.

"Aye, _leering mire_ (lovely one), I hear the truth of your words in my mind, but my heart weeps for the loss of the Ranger whom I have secretly loved for more than a _Yanni_ (Elven century or 144 years). To whom shall I turn for comfort now when the burden of all my long years weighs so heavily upon me?"

Menethôlwen watched as tears spilled out of the Elf's stunning eyes to plunge over the cliffs of his elegant cheekbones, her heart spilling over with the need to ease his pain. She rose and, taking the Elf by the hand, led him away from the others to another moonlit clearing by another stream. And there, under the light of Eleberth's stars, she gave him such comfort as may only be found between a Ninni and an Elf, which is to say that all that had just gone on elsewhere in the woods was more or less repeated, to wit:

• kissing, marking and biting (all the usual forms and locations)  
• caressing (rather more than we saw between Aragorn and Boromir - 'tis the wont of females, is it not? - but with less emphasis on the muscular bit)  
• stroking (of one elfhood in place of two manhoods)  
• gripping of hips (followed by wrapping of female legs around male waist)  
• entering of one secret passage (of the usual description)  
• thrusting (of the usual forms and varieties)  
• exploding, screaming and spilling (of fireworks, names and seed, respectively)  
• tangling of bodies (in the usual condition)

Thus, Isildur's Heir, the Steward's Heir and the King of Mirkwood's Heir all found comfort and were grateful to Menethôlwen, she of the wondrous hair.

All right. Now, with that bit of the story out of the way, perhaps one of you would be so good as to call back in the young one and the prudish one, so I will not have to repeat the next portion of the tale? Thank you.

o o o o o o o o o o

Welcome back, those of you who were away for a bit. Now fear not! You have not missed aught but that which you ought not or sought not to hear. Suffice it to say simply that Aragorn and Boromir have had an intimate moment, and Menethôlwen and Legolas have done likewise.

And when next you visit me, I shall resume my story with the awakening of the Fellowship the following morning.

(To be continued…)

o o o o o o o o o o

**Notes:**

(1) Because the Real Author respects copyright and practices "fair use" of existing works, she was initially forced to insert herself for a moment to add the appropriate citation giving credit for the lyrics that were originally quoted in this passage. They were from "All Souls Night," words and music by Loreena McKennitt, from her 1992 album "The Visit." However, with the latest revision/clarification from FFN forbidding use of any published song lyrics not one's own, even those properly attributed snippets that would be allowed under the "fair use" provisions of copyright law, The Real Author thought it best to avoid the risk of deletion of her account. Thus, the lovely lyrics of the lovely Ms. McKennitt are now paraphrased. I retain the citation as an extra measure of diligence and an expression of my own state of snit over FFN's break with well-established and completely legal practices. No insult is intended to Ms. McKennitt by my use/abuse of her song. Far from it! The album is good, and I'm quite fond of her work: go buy some of it. But the Litmus Test must be fulfilled, so nothing is safe. We now return you to your Fangrrrl Author, who is currently unconscious after viewing too many Orlando Bloom pictures while inhaling pixie stix. Stay tuned for the special holiday chapter, coming soon!


	9. 8 Strangers Who Solve Mysteries

**Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales**

**Author**: Jenn – tolkanonms at yahoo dot com

**Rating**: This particular chapter is rated RW for radical warping of time, plot and assorted characters, not to mention impressionable minds.

The tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean rancid or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).

**Disclaimer**: See the Prologue. Additional disclaimer for this chapter: This is a work of parody. I own nothing even vaguely related to "Miami Vice," save for the DVDs I used for my research (legal copies, bought and paid for via Amazon). I make no profit from this work. Believe me, NO ONE pays for this stuff!

**Feedback**: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

**Archiving**: Edhellond, Gildor's Library. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

**Author's note:** Its bn so hard 2 rite nything since the x-tended version DVD set came out. I'v bn watching them evry nit now 4 like a yr or mor now! N there wer thoz other movies w/ Leggy in them, so I had 2 watch them 2. A lot. An Eomer is lik SOOO hot in that Riddick film. Yummy! And the new Pirates movie w/ Jonny Dipp AND Leggy - 2 DYE 4!

I wonder why PJ is taking so long 2 make his prequel, "The Habit"? They alredy hav the book at amazon which is weerd cuz the movie isn't even out yet. Yeah, I confess: I peeked. Actually, the book is kinda boring cuz its mosly about that that old geezer Hobbit, Bilbo, but Leggy is in it (SQUEEEEE!), so now I cant wait to see the movie!

I no some of u haf bin waiting for another chappie. Sorry bout that. But here it is now and its HUGE, like more than 5 pages long. I got stuck 4 a while, n then I was watching DVDs of some old TV shows. RILLY old ones, like from b4 even Beastmaster! An I got this idea so I rote it down.

Hint: if u want 2 see what thez yummy guys look like, u can google them. Only the guys r diffrnt than the ones in the new movie, so u shud look 4 the TV version cuz DJ and PMT are HOT and EJO is OMG HAWT when he does his marshal arse thingee.

Tessy: Hope u like this one cuz u r in it - happy b-day rilly rilly late! And here's a big shout-out to Jastaelf, Dísthrainsdotter, Lasselante and most of all, Soledad, cuz she's the reason I started to rit this stuff. Hugs n sour skittles!

Remember: SPEW WARNING!

**Chapter 8 - Strangers Who Solve Mysteries**

Greetings, my friends! Winter has come and gone, and now with summer weighing heavily upon us, I see you are ready to sit in the coolness of this dim room and hear more about our lovely heroine and her various companions, animal and other.

Why, yes, thank you, I'd love a bit of your dish! And a nice sip of that will help loosen my tongue so I may tell the next tale of Menethôlwen, whose very name demands a certain fluidness of speech.

Now, I know some of you were not happy about the various goings-on in my previous tale, but that is how it all happened. I heard it from those who were there, and their accounts were quite clear - nay! even graphic - in their telling. Still, knowing the distress some of you experienced, I feel it's only fair to warn you there's a good deal more of that sort of thing yet to be seen, 'ere I finish the whole story.

In fact, it will be coming up soon enough in this tale. If you don't like it, best you find another spot to sit tonight, for there will be a lot more of it - past, present and future, and likely a few other points in time, as well.

o o o o o o o o o o

"I want this slime flushed down the sewer."

Crockett and Tubbs exchanged glances. They knew the Lieutenant meant business. Corruption was the one thing that brought out the fire in the otherwise icy cool Cubano. Their boss' devotion to the law, to justice, to all that was goodness and light, was unflinching, and the two cops knew what that commitment had cost him personally.

Or they thought they did.

o o o o o o o o o o

Tubbs hated this part. Unlike his partner, Sonny Crockett, Ricardo Tubbs did not enjoy the rush of adrenaline in the moments that preceded a major bust. He could happily dance for weeks - months, even - on the edge of the knife that was a deep undercover assignment. It was a game for him, and he was a Class A player.

But this waiting, the endless, slowly ticking sweep-hand in his mind as they waited for the signal from Lenny in Surveillance that the damning words were safely on tape - it made him sweat. And he hated being sweaty. After all these months in Miami, he still couldn't get used to the relentless heat and humidity. Give him Harlem in August anytime.

He blotted his forehead yet again with an already-damp silk handkerchief and carefully rolled his head to ease the knot in his neck.

The signal came, and before he was even on his feet, the Lieutenant flashed silently past him and kicked in the door. Feeling, rather than seeing his partner two steps behind him, Tubbs leapt up to follow Castillo through the dark portal.

o o o o o o o o o o

And stopped just short of slamming into his boss. Crockett, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. He plowed straight into Tubbs, knocking them both to the ground.

Which was... dirt... and leaves... and mushrooms. Not the usual shag carpet popular in sleazy, rented-by-the-hour motel rooms. Both detectives were temporarily mute, stunned by the utter incongruity of their surroundings.

Crockett was the first to regain his voice. Looking around at the tree trunks and lush undergrowth of what was obviously a forest, he brushed leaves out of his dishwater blond hair and muttered, "What the hell?"

Castillo motioned for silence and cocked his head. For the life of him, Tubbs could not hear a thing besides the wind in the tree branches, but it was clear that the Lieutenant did. The Lieutenant was like that - kinda spooky, Tubbs often thought to himself. The dude had some serious mojo working, and after his own way-too-close encounter with a twisted perversion of Santeria, the black detective was pretty sure he didn't want to know more than that.

But he was about to learn more. Much more.

Three guys dressed like extras in an old black-and-white Robin Hood movie appeared out of nowhere so silently it was as if they had simply materialized on the spot. And each of them had a very large bow with a very sharp arrow pointed directly at the chest of a member of the Miami-Dade County Vice Squad.

o o o o o o o o o o

Now I know this bit of the story is somewhat interesting, but of course you are more concerned with how things are with our heroine, the stunning Menethôlwen and her companions and the other Nine Walkers, as well as Bill the Pony. Fear not: all have survived the night and their various recreational activities and are just now awakening in the past, which is quite some time ago relative to this evening we are sharing, but is also, in fact, about the same time in which our intrepid detectives are having their rude welcome to Middle-earth.

o o o o o o o o o o

The nine non-Ninni members of the Fellowship awakened slowly the next morning, limbs heavy and minds woolly from the lingering effects of the poison in the _lemonbars_ (Elven waybread).

Menethôlwen had awakened at dawn to confer with the trees as to how best to proceed in light of this strange and disturbing development. After sending a silent plea far into the future, she spoke quietly with each Walker in the present. Her musical voice and calming words eased their anxiety, and soon Sam had a fine breakfast frying over the campfire.

Once they had eaten and were feeling more themselves again, Menethôlwen announced her decision.

"A dark deed has been done, and until we know the meaning of it, the nature of threat against us, we cannot risk proceeding further. We must consult with Elrond and... others."

"But what about the Quest? The Ring? Mr. Frodo?" Sam blurted.

Menethôlwen gazed at him with a look both sorrowful and severe. "The Quest stands balanced on the edge of a knife. If we stray but a little, it will fall, to the ruin of all. We must return to Imladris. Help awaits us there."

"Oh, well, right then. I'll just see to Bill," the Hobbit said, much relieved.

And so it was that, once breakfast was eaten and camp broken, the Ten Walkers, Bill the Pony, the Bengal tiger, the eagle and the ferrets began the long hike back to Imladris.

o o o o o o o o o o

The Elven leader smiled haughtily, his eyes never leaving those of his Mannish captive as he spoke to his comrades in Lothlórien-accented Cinderon, "The Man in the pastel shirt smells so bad we could have shot him in the dark."

"_Lotsa_ _breath mean_ (listen to me)," Castillo said quietly, addressing the tall, blond Elf warrior standing before him.

The two younger Elves gasped - a Man other than Aragorn speaking Cinderon fluently?

Tubbs glanced at Crockett, who started to shrug, but reconsidered the action promptly when he heard a bow creak as its owner drew more deeply.

Castillo continued to stare down the woodland warrior, speaking in a low voice, somehow transforming even the melodious Cinderon into an urgent command. "We have been summoned to aid the people of Middle-earth in their time of need. Take us to Imladris now."

None of the Elves moved,

Frowning slightly, Castillo made his request again, this time in Enya, the most ancient form of Elvish but one.

Now, even Haldir gaped for a moment before recovering his haughty demeanor.

"Who are you that you should look so strange, yet speak our beloved Enya so well? Answer quickly, lest my finger should fall asleep on the bowstring and slip!"

Castillo sighed. "I am known to the Lord of this Realm, and long ago, I was known to his brother. If I have been summoned back to Middle-earth, the need must be dire. Now take us to the Master of Imladris before it is too late."

As the Man spoke, the dawning of awareness spread across Haldir's somewhat chubby cheeks. His brothers' hollow-cheeked faces showed no signs of comprehension, but that was not unusual. Crockett and Tubbs remained utterly confused, a state of affairs that was to become all too familiar to them before their adventure was over.

At a signal invisible to the Men, the Elves lowered their bows. Crockett swiped his hand through his hair once more, and Tubbs straightened his tie before slicking back his own tight, black curls.

Without another word, Haldir turned and led the party into the forest toward the Last Homely House.

o o o o o o o o o o

Erestor burst into Elrond's chambers.

"My Lord, he has returned! The swarthy Man with the poor complexion has returned! And he has with him two - one pale, one dark - who cannot possibly be mighty warriors, as they are wearing the most outlandish garb I have ever seen! Not even a Rohirrim would be caught--"

Elrond silenced Erestor with a raised hand and hastened to the front balcony to see for himself.

It could not be.

He drew a deep breath and turned his piercing gaze once more upon Haldir's party. It had been another Age, another time and place. Surely, the power of the Oath made so long ago had faltered. Elven eyes detected signs of age on the Man's face, and yet there was no denying it was Martin Castillo, a Man of mystery, somehow returned to Middle-earth. Who among them remained who knew of the Oath and had the power to call him back? What crisis had arisen so dire as warrant invoking that Summons?

And who in Arda were his companions? Like salt and pepper they were, and dressed every bit as strangely as Erestor had implied. Elrond arched an eyebrow, then whirled and strode back into his chambers.

Snatching the formal robe Erestor held out to him, Elrond hurried through the hallways and down the main staircase, arriving just as the human trio and its Elven guard reached the front pavilion. A crowd of Elves, alerted by Erestor's blabbing, had already gathered to see the strange, new arrivals. (With Menethôlwen's departure, life in Imladris had returned to its usual, centuries-old, boring routine, so any possible bit of excitement was eagerly snatched at by one and all.)

Haldir's party stopped several paces from the bottom of the stairs just as Glorfindel skidded to a halt at Elrond's right elbow. Seeing his rival thus positioned, Erestor smoothly sauntered into place to the left of Elrond.

But Elrond's gaze never left the form of the Man who now stepped forward and lifted his face to look upon the Elf's own ageless visage. Gesturing for his would-be seneschals to remain, Elrond walked slowly down the steps, his eyes locked on those of the Man before him. As the Half-elf came to stand level with the Whole-man, words more breathed than voiced escaped his lips: "_Kneed mail lawn_ (my friend)."

Castillo smiled, an event whose current rarity was appreciated only by his own detectives. For in his time among the Elves, Castillo had smiled often, laughed heartily and even sung with the oldest of the Elves in the Hall of Songs in the days before his heart was broken the first time.

Without a word, in a gesture so moving that the Elves sang of it long afterward, Elrond the Loremaster and Martin Castillo the Lieuteant swept each other into a deep embrace, looking for all of Arda like long-lost brothers (which they were, after a fashion, as you shall soon learn). And if the eyes of Half-elf and Whole-Man were perhaps a little moist, none witnessing their profound joy could find fault.

o o o o o o o o o o

"Are we there yet?" asked Merry between gasps.

Menethôlwen turned to smile sweetly at the young Hobbit. "We'll be there by next sunset. For now, let us stop and make camp, so that all may be well-rested when we set out tomorrow."

Merry looked to his companion, Pippin, and sighed. "Her voice is so soothing, like bells,"

"Like crystal," Pippin replied, bobbing his head in agreement. "Perhaps she'll sing us another song at bedtime."

o o o o o o o o o o

As Crockett returned from what he had to admit was the most amazing bathhouse he'd ever seen, he fought to choke back a burst of laughter. His partner, Tubbs, was dressed in a brightly colored Elven robe, dark chest bared, with a large, golden medallion hanging from his neck. But when the oddball named Glorfiddle greeted Crockett with cheerful, "My Man, what is happening?" Crockett's self-control failed, and he laughed until tears ran down his face. Fortunately, the guy took the reaction as a compliment and wished them both a good night's sleep before leaving.

As Crockett struggled to regain his composure, Tubbs checked the room for eavesdropping devices. Recalled to duty, Crockett sobered up and motioned his partner to pull up a chair next to him. Lowering his voice, he said, "Ya know how we were sayin' it's obvious this El Ron and the Lieutenant have a history? Well, I heard somethin' kinda weird from that Hall-dear guy when we were soakin' in the hot tub."

The black detective raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Hey, he gave me something to drink, and then I started being able to understand him a bit, so I figured I'd ask some questions. Seems El Ron had this twin brother named El Ros. Now somehow, Castillo and the El Ros guy had that _bushido_ brother honor bond thing going - ya know, swordfights back-to-back in temples, death in the ancient air, armies of darkness an' all that? Well, somethin' went wrong, like they were betrayed somehow, and El Ros died in the Lieutenant's arms. After that, seems Castillo swore some kinda oath to El Ron that, if El Ron ever got in a major bind, all he had to do was send word and Castillo would show up."

Tubbs shook his head slowly. "Man, the more you know about the Lieutenant, the weirder he gets."

Crockett snorted. "Yeah, no kiddin'. Anyway, I think that's why we're here, to help the pointy-eared dudes. The question is, what are we supposed to be doing? And how the hell did we get here? And how the hell do we get back?"

The Elf in the tree outside signed silently to his partner, "That's three questions." The other Elf smirked.

Tubbs nodded sagely and said, "That explains some of the weird stuff I heard from that Glorfiddle dude. He's a real talker! Hard to shut him up once he gets started, but I get the impression he's been around a long time and knows what's goin' down."

Crockett lit a cigarette and nodded for his partner to continue. The trees nearest the windows drew back their branches, and the two Elven warriors dropped soundlessly to the ground and ran into the woods to cough and wretch.

"I overheard some of those dudes in the fancy robes talking. Couldn't understand a word of it, but they kept mentioning what sounded like a name: So-Ron. I figure he must be Thai or somethin' with a name like that. And you know how the Lieutenant is about Thais..." he said, letting the sentence trail off.

Crockett nodded soberly as Tubbs continued.

"So I asked Glorfiddle about him. Seems this So-Ron is a serious player. He pretended to teach some other gang of pointy-eared dudes - called 'em the Myrrh-dyed, I think - how to make rings. Only he was actually tricking their boss, Kelly Brimber, into making some kinda contraband for him that would let him take over the whole operation. Now they call him So-Ron the Deceiver. And Glorfiddle says this dude's lookin' to score some special, one-of-a-kind ring and will do anything to get it."

o o o o o o o o o o

Elrond and Castillo gazed quietly into the fire. To nosy observers such as Erestor, they seemed to be sitting in companionable silence, sipping Dorwinion and enjoying the crackling hearth.

In fact, as you likely will have guessed, the two were deep in conversation, mind-speaking each other from armchairs placed at angles so their knees almost touched. Elrond's thoughts brushed gently against Castillo's mind, like the lightest breeze over water.

"What exactly did she say, Brother of My Brother?"

After a long pause, Castillo spoke aloud, pain obvious in the roughness of his voice.

"My Brother's Brother, I am sorry, but I have allowed the skills you taught me to grow weak, for in the world that will follow this one, there is no one who keeps the ancient ways alive. I felt her presence, heard her crystalline voice, sensed her fear of an evil unnamed and knew her to be in grave danger. More than that, I cannot say. I have failed you all."

He paused to take a sip from his glass, then added bitterly, "Again."

Elrond leaned forward and placed a hand on Castillo's knee. He, too, spoke aloud now.

"You did not fail Elros, Martin! He chose to be counted among the race of Men because it was his Doom. Yes, his love for you gave him the courage to embrace that path, but the choice was his, and his alone."

Castillo turned his head away. "Still, it cost you your brother and set his heirs on a path the eventually led to the ruin of Númenór."

Seeing Elrond's surprise, he added, "I've read it in books that will be written in the far future."

Elrond sat back and stared into the fire for a moment.

"This is all true, Martin. But-" and he leaned forward once again, more intently this time, "do you not perceive the greater plan of El-Hoover-tar at work here? If you and Elros had not become brothers in the way of warriors, Elros would not have chosen to become Human, and there would have been no Númenórian line. And thus, it is only through your bond with Elros that we have among us the one who has brought us _estel_, hope, in our darkest hour. For, as revealed by her violet eyes, the blood that flows in her veins in this life contains a stream from that of the Men of Númenór. It is the blood - however distant - of the one who was a brother to us both."

Castillo looked up sharply from under black eyebrows, his expression impossible to read in the dim light.

"She is here, now, in this present time that will become part of my dark past and yet is far in the future from the day when last we said farewell?"

Fortunately, Elrond was a loremaster of sufficient skill to follow the Lieutenant's personal version of the time warp.

"Yes, she is embodied again now, more beautiful even than before, and I sense she will be here in Imladris very soon."

Castillo's gaze drifted back to the fire as his mind drifted back to times long past.

"Perhaps now I will learn the reason why I have been called back to Middle-earth."

o o o o o o o o o o

Crockett scowled. "You mean we're stuck here in God knows where with a bunch of escapees from a hippie cult's archery class just to stop a freakin' jewelry heist?"

Tubbs shook his head. "Nah, I got a feeling there's something more. Glorfiddle was goin' on about some outfit called Dull Gull Door. Sounds like it's maybe one of those big casinos - he talked about dragons and "dark lord" dudes and lots of gold. Could be they're laundering money that's being used to finance a dirty war to muscle in on El Ron's cousin's turf."

The blond scratched his head and threw his partner a puzzled look.

Tubbs rolled his eyes. "You know, the cousin - that Kellog Born guy we're going to meet? Glorfiddle was talking about how these guys from Dull Gull Door have taken over part of some big forest operation Kellog runs, poisoning the woods, and how pissed off Kellog's wife is about it. Hall-dear said they're the ones that sent him and his Robin Hood gang that met us back in the forest."

o o o o o o o o o o

Menethôlwen and the others arrived in Imladris shortly after lunch. There was much rejoicing in the halls of the House of Elrond. After the formal welcoming, Erestor hurried off to adjust his seating plans to include the strange visitors in the great feast he had organized for the occasion.

Elrond and Castillo walked down the steps to greet the Walkers. Man and Ninni gazed upon one another for a long moment, their eyes speaking of joy and sorrow in equal measure, before the Cubano reached out to take her hand and plant a gentle kiss on its silken surface.

The Ninni smiled and touched his cheek, whispering, "You came."

The Man smiled back. "You called."

And while neither Crockett nor Tubbs had a clue as to what was going on, they sensed they were witnessing a special moment.

o o o o o o o o o o

"And that, my dearest Martin, brother of the brother of one whom I have loved in the past but with whom I am now just friends, is why I summoned you and your loyal retainers back into the present time."

Castillo frowned as he pondered the evidence before him. He turned to the Half-elf.

"Tell me, is it still true that only the Elves who live in trees bake the _lemonbars_?"

Elrond stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"It is true, Martin. The _lemonbars_ are made in the woodland realm of Celeborn and Galadriel by those She-elves descended from Lúthien Tinúviel."

"Then we must go to Lothlórien," Castillo said. "That's where we'll find our answers. And our would-be killer."

o o o o o o o o o o

Now, as I have already related to you at length the activities surrounding the departure of the Ten Walkers, I trust I need not go over the particulars of this larger leave-taking in any great detail. The preparations, ceremonies, feasts, songs, speeches, etc. were all as one would expect for visitors of such imminence and situations of such gravity. The only significant difference was the absence of Men other than Aragorn, Boromir and the three from Miami, and Dwarves other than Gimli, and neither loss was lamented in the least in Imladris.

However, there was one event that does bear special mention. During his wanderings through Imladris, Tubbs had one day found himself in the greenhouse, where he met Analiesseluvielwen, a beautiful Hobbit who had been adopted by Erestor and Lindir when she was found wandering alone in the dark woods as a very little girl. Unusually tall and slender for a Hobbit, with no noticeable hair on her rather dainty feet, she had grown to become not only a healer nearly equal to Elrond in her knowledge and abilities, but also a bard and scrivener. Her tales and songs were as widely sought after as those of Lindir himself, and all who heard them were moved by their beauty. Tubbs knew nothing of her medicines or her scrolls, nor could he understand a word she said, but he fell madly in love with her and spent many glorious nights in the silken embrace of the one he called "Annie."

Meanwhile, Rúmil and Orophin, Haldir's hollow-cheeked brothers, had already begun their journey home to ensure preparations were made for the arrival of the Ninni and the others. Haldir remained to guide the party through the treacherous tall grasses that surrounded the Golden Wood. Runners also were sent to Mirkwood, the realm of King Thrandrool, Legolas' horrid father, to tell of the return of Martin Castillo, for the Man was well-known to some among the Aardvarki. Those ancient Elves of the Greenwood would no doubt wish to journey from the green to the golden to be reunited with their old companion of the past from the future.

And when all of these things were done, or at least underway, the Ten Walkers, the three Men of Mai-amon (as the Imladris Elves called them), one Half-elf, one Twice-born Elf and a whole lot of animal companions made their way to Lothlórien, home of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn.

o o o o o o o o o o

"So how the hell did we get here?" Crockett asked.

From the dreamy look on Tubbs' face, it was clear he was daydreaming about his Annie and ignoring his partner.

Pippin piped up helpfully, "We walked. Don't you remember?"

Castillo patted the Hobbit on the head, then drew his men (or Men, as they were known in Middle-earth) aside. Speaking in a low voice, he explained, "There are weaknesses in the fabric of time and space that form a bridge one can cross - with the proper knowledge and training. If the need is great enough, and the bond strong enough, instantaneous metaphysical, extra-temporal transit is possible."

Tubbs' eyes had glazed over as soon the word "metaphysical" came up. No way he was messing with that mystical woo-woo stuff again! Crockett stared blankly at the Lieutenant, having lost his place in the sentence somewhere back around the first word that had three syllables.

The Lieutenant grimaced and sighed, realizing his men were truly out of their league.

"Gentlemen, I need you to trust me on this one. Do exactly as I say, and we'll soon be back in Miami, and all of this will be as if in a dream."

As he spoke, he stared intently into the eyes of first one, then the other, and made a strange gesture with his left hand. The detectives both nodded.

"These are not the crooks we are looking for," Crockett said.

Tubbs nodded, adding, "They don't have the drugs we want. Move along."

Castillo smiled slightly.

"Very good."

Back at the fire, Gandalf cleared his throat, and other conversations fell silent in expectation.

"I fear we must travel through the Mines of Moria. We have no other choice."

Gimli tried very hard - unsuccessfully - to conceal his smirk. He'd had just about enough of that wizard pontificating about how they must avoid the home of his dear cousin, Baleen, as if it were some plague-infested swamp crawling with Orcs and other assorted forms of nastiness. Hmph! He'd show that old wizard - and the Elf he was finding so damned distracting - just how warm and enjoyable Dwarven hospitality could be.

He stole a glance in the direction of the blond archer from Lothlórien. Yes, he'd see personally to the needs of that one, he thought, a furry chuckle rising to his lips. So like the lovely Elven prince, yet he showed none of the signs of the centuries of abuse that Legolas had clearly suffered at the hands of his horrid father. No, Haldir carried himself with the arrogance of one who was supremely confident. There would be no messy psychological issues to resolve before showing that one the hospitality of the Dwarves.

"But the Mines are very dark and damp, and there are said to be foul things in its depths."

Aragorn's whine cut into the Dwarf's daydreaming. Before he could muster yet another defense of his kinsman's realm, Menethôlwen's voice sang out across the anxiety rising among the Walkers.

"Fear not, Aragorn! All will be well in the end, and in the end, that is what truly matters, is it not?"

Like the crystalline ringing of a church bell cutting through a fetid fog on the moors, her voice brightened the clearing in which they sat. Everyone relaxed, nodded contentedly and went on about their various chores.

Aragorn smiled, his anxiety banished, and replied, "Yes, of course it will. You speak truly indeed, Ninni."

o o o o o o o o o o

They were all waiting outside the Mines of Moria. Crockett's butt was sore from sitting on a cold stone for the past two hours. Gandalf was still trying to remember the secret code to open the huge stone doors. The Miami cop had long since switched his own attentions to trying to roll a cigarette with a swamp balm leaf and the bit of pipeweed Merry and Pippin had offered him earlier.

Meanwhile, a Dwarf woman paced back and forth in front of the doors, eyeing the arch above them. Dissendatter, as she was called, was the many-times great-granddaughter of the Dwarven master stonemason, Gnarlich, who had himself apprenticed under Narvi when the Gates were built. She had been called in from a nearby village as a consultant. She was an unusually lovely Dwarf, by Mannish standards: rather more tall and slender for her kind, though still very strong. Her wavy hair was pinned up on her head and held in place by exquisite combs of filigree silver studded with gemstones, but as she bent to examine this or that aspect of the gates, errant strands worked their way lose and tumbled down her back, sparkling now like burnished copper, now like rose gold. If Gimli hadn't been otherwise distracted, he would have been quite taken with her – his failure to take advantage of the opportunity would no doubt have earned him a good ribbing from his cousin, Baleen, although as we will soon see, that turned out not to be an issue.

Dissendatter paused now, hands on hips, and stared up at the writing on the arch over the Gates, lost in thought. After a bit, she checked the hinges again and kicked the doors a few times, for good measure. Startled by the sudden sharp sound, her animal companions, a pair of rats named Giroschen and Eschuvlaken, left off playing with Menethôlwen's ferrets, Elladan and Elrohir, and scampered to her side. She knelt down for a moment to scratch first one, then the other, behind the ears.

"Ja, ja, meine Liebschens, wir haben hier etwas dass sehr interessantischlichenen ist, nicht wahr?" ("Very interesting.")

Rising to her feet, she stroked her silky beard and pondered the archway again. Now, as you well know, Dwarven women have beards, the same as Dwarven men. But the discovery of this fact had so thoroughly disturbed Tubbs that he'd retreated to the edge of the murky pond that lay before the gates to daydream about his beloved Annie, who had gorgeous, flowing red hair on her head, where it belonged, and absolutely no trace of a beard.

"Aber wass die Heilligeburninkrappen dass dis mean? 'Sprechen Sie Freund und in das Platz werden Sie inkommen wenn Sie haben etwas gut mit zu drinken.' Was Kinden af geschtupidische elvenkrankenriddlinen Göffendinge gibst hier?" ("What have we here?")

Castillo came up behind her silently, in the way of a master of martial arts.

"It says, 'Speak, Friend, and enter if you have something good to drink.'"

The Dwarf practically jumped out of her skin.

"Ach, meine Valarschen! Heilige Buchecker! Du habst mir so geschtartlt dass ich habe meine gute weisse Knickerschenen gemuckenuppt!" (trans: "Oh my goodness!")

Aragorn looked up, also geschtartlt - er, startled.

"You read Tengwarsh?"

Castillo nodded, adding, "I learned it long ago from your foster father."

"Oh." Aragorn looked disappointed. "I thought I was the only Man who could read Tengwarsh."

Boromir leaned over, patted him on the shoulder and whispered, "You're still the only bearded man who can read Tengwarsh." Aragorn cast him a grateful look before resuming his careful study of the water before them.

Ignoring the Men entirely, Dissendatter sputtered, "Nein! Nein! Mein Pappi hat nicht af dis Boozenausgegebeningdinge gesprochen." (trans: "No, that's not what Papa said.")

Up to this point, Menethôlwen had remained strangely silent. She, of course, knew the solution to the puzzle, but she was reluctant to step forth and admit her knowledge, for fear she might be called upon to explain the reason for her possession of it. However, it was clear the Maia was getting nowhere, and even Castillo was stumped, so, for the sake of the Quest, she rose gracefully to her feet and spoke.

"Dissendatter does not know this riddle because it is not as Celebrimbor originally ordered it to be carved. It has been altered."

Everyone fell silent as her silver voice echoed like bells across the oily waters that lapped near their feet.

"After the founding of Moria, I had a vision in which I foresaw that, for the sake of Middle-earth, I alone must be able to open the Gates. Therefore, I slipped Narvi 50 gold coins to alter the Tengwarsh characters after Celebrimbor and I left to return to E-Raging-On. None but Narvi and I knew of the change."

The others stared in disbelief, shock, bewilderment or total non-comprehension, depending on their species, their knowledge of historical canon regarding the Gates or, in the case of Crockett and Tubbs, their native language. Pippin was the first to break the silence.

"So, what's the answer to the riddle?"

Menethôlwen smiled sweetly at him and patted him on the head.

"It's quite simple, really. If you are truly a friend of the Dwarves, you know to bring beer when coming to visit. So, to open the gates, you simply name the beer."

Sam scratched his head, then looked at Gimli.

"So what kind of beer do Dwarves like best?"

Gimli tossed his head back and roared with laughter, clapping the Hobbit so hard on the shoulder that Sam nearly went face first into the putrid pond in front of them.

"Loweredbrow, of course! A fine malt beer, I might add! You'll taste it for yourself soon enough, my lad, when we pour frothy mugs full of--"

And as he spoke, there was a groaning of ancient bearings, a grinding of stone on stone, a gasp of stale air as the ancient seal broke, and the Gates of Moria slowly swung open.

o o o o o o o o o o

And numerous tentacles sprang out of the water, grabbing Tubbs, Bill and a rock. (Two out of three wasn't bad, considering the poor lighting.) As the Hobbits screamed, Gandalf raised his staff and shouted something old and magical that made his staff glow brightly, but had no particular effect beyond making it easier to see the horror of the deep that had awakened.

The Elves drew their bows, and the Men who were born in Middle-earth drew their swords, preparing to wade in to rescue their companions. Crockett fumbled for his gun, but couldn't find his ankle holster, having indulged in a little too much pipeweed. Castillo adopted a martial arts fighting stance, ready to launch himself into a flying kick aimed at a spot between the monster's eyes.

But Menthôlwen stopped them all with a gesture, motioning for them to draw back into the Mines, leaving her alone to face the nightmarish creature. And once the others had passed the Gates, the Ninni turned toward the beast, which was now dangling Tubbs by one foot over its jagged mouth. She took a deep breath, then cast her most sorrowful look upon the creature.

Time ceased to move as the creature froze, the Miami detective only centimeters from its rows of sharp, badly stained teeth.

Then its lower lip quivered. A sniffle escaped its flat, slimy nostrils. It set the Man, the pony and the rock down on the shore, pulled all its tentacles over its head and began to weep softly.

"No one understands me. No one. I just want to play, but they all scream and run away, and I'm sorry, really I am. It's just that I, I, I get so lonely..." The rest of its words were lost in a heart-rending wail.

Menethôlwen smiled sweetly at the grieving beast. "There, there. We know you didn't mean it. Here, have a biscuit."

The beast accepted the treat, sniffling a bit, as the Ninni began to sing a lullaby. Clearly calmed by the soothing tones of her crystalline voice, the creature began to doze and slipped silently back under the waves again.

Menethôlwen waved Tubbs into the mines and, catching Bill by his halter rope, she followed, leaving the rock to fend for itself.

o o o o o o o o o o

And after a few disturbances involving the disturbing creatures known to dwell in the disturbed depths of Moria, all of which were quickly dispatched by Menethôlwen and Underhill, the party emerged on the other side and into the grassy meadows surrounding the Golden Woods. Rúmil and Orophin emerged from the trees to greet them.

Haldir winked at them, then sniffed the air loudly and wrinkled his nose.

"The Dwarf smells so bad we could shoot him in the dark, too. We cannot take him before my Lord and Lady in such a state."

His brothers barely managed to hide their grins. Elrond stifled a chuckle, and Glorfindel tried to do likewise, but a snort still escaped his twice-born nose. Ignoring them all, Menethôlwen turned to Haldir and cast a sorrowful look on his chubby face.

"Haldir, they have not bathed in the forty days of our journey. They had not with them the magical soaps of the Golden Woods, and so they could not lather up without harming the fish that swim in the waters of Arda, which they were loathe to do."

Haldir pretended to stammer, as if embarrassed: "Oh, my lady, I see now the truth of the situation."

Then, turning to Gimli, he said, "Forgive me my arrogance, Master Dwarf. To suffer so long without a bath, to go about smelling like a Ranger, you must truly be a friend of the forest, and thus a friend of the Elves. Allow me to make up for my rude words by showing you to a most beautiful and secluded waterfall, all set about by stones with veins of precious metals running through them, so that you may be rewarded with the clean, soothing waters of the Golden Woods."

Gimli pretended to harumph a bit, then relented. "Well, since you put it that way, how can I refuse such a gracious offer? Lead on, Haldir!"

And so Haldir and Gimli walked off into the trees together. Haldir's brothers, who had taken quite a fancy to the Dwarf themselves, were not far behind their behinds, leaving behind the rest of the party to fend for itself.

Gandalf scratched his head, shrugged and said, "Well, I guess we'll just show ourselves into the Realm of the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn."

"Allow me the honor, Grey Wizard," a sultry voice purred from somewhere unseen.

Crockett and Tubbs whirled around, trying to locate the speaker while groping for guns that had somehow gone missing during the night.

Castillo walked toward a particularly tall mallorn and held out a hand.

A red-headed she-Elf stepped out from behind the tree, beaming with delight.

"_Need lend my thorn_ (my sweet warrior), how wonderful to see you again!"

Castillo ran his eyes over her trim figure, noting the elegant bow she carried.

"It's been a long time, Iastwen."

Iastwen Elevenuiel slowly looked the detective up and down, sighed deeply and wiggled her eyebrows. "Yes it has, _leering mire_ (lovely one). Indeed it has." She reached out and took his hand.

As the two stood gazing into each other's eyes, Glorfindel sidled up behind the she-Elf. Trying out another bit of English he'd learned from Tubbs, he leered and said, "Hey baby, what is shaking?"

Iastwen broke into a huge grin, dropped the Man's hand and punched the Elf in the arm.

"_Pent-up done one_ (twice-born one), you old dog, you! Where have you been? Ol' Nano finally let you out of the Walls of Mangos, eh? How much did you take him for before he gave up the game?"

Glorfindel smirked and arched one elegant eyebrow. Iastwen pretended to hold a stern face, but lasted only moments before she flung herself into the arms of the Lord of the Golden Flower, who swung her around in circles until they both fell over, dizzy and laughing.

o o o o o o o o o o

Now, throughout this exchange, most of the party that remained had stood staring, utterly confused because none but one spoke Aardvarki. This language was the most ancient form of Elvish, spoken only by that handful of obstinate Elves who chose not to go see the pretty trees in Valley Noor and instead remained in the Greenwood. (Which wood, by the way, was now called Mirkwood because their King, Thrandrool, treated his son, Legolas, so badly that all the ancient Elves who remained there were a bit sad about the whole thing, which made the trees sad and thus inclined to grow rather less well than one would expect.)

And among the most obstinate of these Elves was Iastwen Elevenuiel, a red-headed spitfire and the long-time companion of Aikalerion, a master swordsmith of this race. Elrond, being a Loremaster and an Elf who had been around for a long time, was of course quite familiar with both the language and its native speaker, as well as her history with his would-be seneschal.

However, he was himself utterly startled to hear Castillo speaking fluent Aardvarki. Smiling tolerantly at the antics of the two Elves on the ground, he stepped to Castillo's side and raised an eyebrow.

The Man arched his own eyebrow for a long moment before shrugging.

"I learned it when I was living undercover in the Bermuda Triangle dealing with the drug lords. Aikalerion and Iastwen used to visit me now and again."

Iastwen wiggled her eyebrows once more as Glorfindel smirked, "Oh, is that what you young ones call it nowadays?"

o o o o o o o o o o

Goodness, but tonight's tale is getting long! Might I trouble you for another drink? Ah, thank you!

Well now, the greatly expanded group of Walkers arrived at last at the home of Celeborn and Galadriel, where everyone was delighted to see Menethôlwen again. After exchanging a warrior's embrace of the public sort, Celeborn and Castillo headed up the tree to the Elf's library to discuss the mystery that brought them to the Golden Woods. Galadriel stayed behind, supposedly to see to the guests, but more with the intention to catch up on gossip with the Ninni.

That evening, there was, of course, a huge feast, followed by singing, dancing, drinking and all the usual things that follow after that. One of these things is of particular interest to us, and so why don't we just skip those boring bits and get right to it, shall we?

o o o o o o o o o o

Tessiluthieniwen, almost as ravishingly beautiful as Menethôlwen herself, but with raven black hair, was also sweet and generous and understanding and wise. An accomplished archer, harpist, swordswoman, silversmith, potion-maker, gardener and seamstress, she had gone into the woods after dark to seek the petals of the flower of a rare herb that bloomed only under the light of the full moon.

As she moved deeper into the woods, her unusually keen hearing revealed to her a shouting match that had developed between Aragorn and Boromir over some trivial matter of Gondor's history. Now, to all appearances, they were both simply rather drunk and being silly boys, but Tessiluthieniwen's near-telepathic ability to see into their souls warned her of the danger that Darkness might sunder them.

"Stop this at once!" she cried sweetly, stepping into the clearing. And, startled as they were - her footsteps had been silent, of course - they did stop.

With a single, crystal tear trembling at the corner of one of her emerald green eyes, she spoke gently, yet with great urgency in her silver voice.

"Men of Gondor, I sense within you a love that could conquer all. And indeed, it must, for you will be tested many times more on the journey that lies before you. Set aside this petty bickering and allow the beacon of your love for each other to shine forth in the place of hurtful words."

Aragorn and Boromir stood stunned. So moved were they both by her words that, for a long moment, neither could speak. Then, as if with one mind, they each reached out a hand to draw her down onto the soft floor of the sylvan realm. And for the rest of the night, not a discouraging word was heard, and the Men of Gondor made passionate love to her and shared with each other the warrior's embrace of the private sort until the moon had set.

When morning came, the Elf rose quietly from among the tangle of limbs and clothing, pulled on her silken gown once more and bade them a silent farewell with a glowing smile and not a single tear, for she sensed they were fated to be together until the end of their time in Arda.

o o o o o o o o o o

The beauty of the morning was utterly lost on Crockett, who was not handling his nicotine withdrawal very well at all since running out of his last menthol cigarette.

"Damn it!" he yelled, slamming a fist into a delicately carved standing screen. His unfortunate target snapped in two places and fell noisily to the stone floor, only reinforcing the detective's aggravation.

At that moment, Glorfindel appeared. After a quick glance at the collapsed screen, he gestured for the two Men to follow him to the dining hall. Nothing a good breakfast wouldn't cure, he thought to himself. Well, that and a visit from a certain woodworker he knew. He'd been looking for an excuse to look her up, and here it was, practically handed to him on a silver platter. Or was that a silver spoon? He still couldn't quite get his expressions right - this Hangover of the Reborn really was most unsettling. He'd have to speak to Nano about that next time he saw him.

And so it was that, when Tubbs and Crockett were led back to their room a few hours later, they found Glorfindel chatting languidly with a tall, dark-haired she-Elf who had a carpenter's apron draped about her slender hips. She laughed as she used a bit of pumice to smooth over the last of the joints she had rebuilt.

Crockett, feeling very embarrassed about his earlier tantrum, tried to make some sort of apology, but before he could finish, the Lórien Elf handed him a piece of parchment and launched into what seemed to be a complicated discourse on something completely incomprehensible to him. Then she smiled, kissed Glorfindel warmly on the cheek, picked up her tools and left.

Seeing their bewilderment, the blond warrior sighed. He suspected the Valar had finally answered his oft-pondered query as to why he had been released from the Walls of Mangos so soon: he was the only one besides Elrond who could speak this silly sub-Roarhick language of theirs. Clearly, they were not capable of learning even Westronic, let along Cinderon, and the Man Castillo clearly had more important things to do than act as a translator. Ah well, it was good to be alive again - small price to pay for the pleasure gained.

The Elf turned to the Men and explained, "Lasselanterielwen said to tell you that you'll need her note there for something she calls a "Tacks Ree-tyrnn." Do you know what she's talking about?"

Crockett's day was suddenly looking better. "You mean, I can deduct it as a business expense? Alright!"

Tubbs slapped his partner's back and laughed. Glorfindel was completely mystified as to the reason, but decided it was some kind of joke, and so he joined in the merriment. The three of them were still chuckling and wiping their eyes as they arrived at the throne room of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien.

o o o o o o o o o o

They sobered up very quickly, however, when they saw the somber faces of those assembled there. Menethôlwen, Galadriel, Celeborn, Elrond, Gandalf, Aragorn and Castillo sat in a semi-circle, speaking urgently in hushed tones. Boromir and Gimli sat off to one side, silently observing. The Hobbits were nowhere to be seen. Glorfindel motioned his charges to chairs at the edge of the platform, and for once, the detectives realized they should just keep their mouths shut.

Moments later, Haldir arrived, fully armed, escorting a She-Elf neither Crockett nor Tubbs had seen before. To Boromir, she appeared even more lovely than the Elf he and Aragorn had encountered the night before. Aragorn, he noticed, refused to meet her searching eyes. Elrond gasped as if in pain, and Castillo reached over to pat his shoulder.

When they stood before the council, Haldir motioned the She-Elf forward, then took his customary place at Celeborn's side. A tense hush fell, as even the trees grew still, awaiting what would follow.

Galadriel was the first to break the silence.

"You stand accused of poisoning the _lemonbars_ given to the Ten Walkers. Is this true?"

The She-Elf stood tall for a moment, but then her full lower lip began to quiver, and a tear ran down her cheek. She hid her hands in her face.

Legolas, unable to restrain himself any longer, leapt to his feet, tossed his hair over his shoulder angrily and yelled, "By the Valar, what possessed you to try to poison one who has ever been a loyal friend of the Elves, indeed of all Middle-earth?"

Celeborn's face showed no expression as he leaned forward and gestured for the Mirkwood Elf to be silent. "Why, Granddaughter? What darkness within could drive you to do such a shameful thing?"

o o o o o o o o o o

Here I must interrupt myself a moment and explain. The She-Elf was Arwen. "And who is she?" you ask - and well you should. She was the daughter of Elrond, granddaughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, and therefore a bit like a niece to Gandalf, Glorfindel and Haldir, more some sort of cousin to Legolas, the object of a boyhood crush to Aragorn and a figure from ancient books to Boromir and Castillo. (This time around, Gimli joined Crockett and Tubbs in the category of those completely lacking a clue.)

Alas, Arwen was only as beautiful as her ancestor, Lùthien Tinùviel, who was so beautiful that all of Arda went into mourning when she died. So, as you can imagine, with the return of Menthôlwen, Arwen was hardly worthy of notice anymore, which is why she has not appeared in my tale until now and likely will not appear again. And, as Castillo understood all too well from his years fighting the darkness all around him, some folks will do anything to get attention.

Menethôlwen forgave her, of course, and so far as I know, she lived on into the next Age, devoting her life to making banners for the armies fighting the battles against Darkness that I shall relate to you later in my story.

o o o o o o o o o o

With the mystery solved, Castillo knew it was time to lead his men home. As they walked toward the waterfall, Elrond mind-spoke him again.

"I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for us. The fate of Middle-earth is once again in the hands of the only one who can save us."

Castillo smiled quietly and nodded.

When they reached the top of the falls, the noise was so deafening as to render spoken conversation impossible. Glorfindel and Tubbs exchanged a jive handshake, and Erestor handed Crockett a packet of pipeweed. Elrond and Castillo grasped arms in a warrior's handshake, then pulled each other into a warrior's embrace of the public sort for a long moment. Releasing the Half-elf, Castillo gestured to his men to follow him as he stepped out onto the large, flat rocks at the water's edge.

Tubbs and Crockett hesitated. Smirking, Glorfindel and Erestor exchanged glances over the Men's heads, then shoved the Men forward, launching them over the waterfall. Castillo looked back at Elrond one more time, grinned broadly, then jumped after his detectives.

o o o o o o o o o o

"Man, what is it with you, Tubbs? Can't even walk straight on a docked boat?"

Crockett chuckled as he hauled first himself, then his partner up out the warm waters of the Miami marina where the live-aboard boat that was part of his cover as Sonny Burnett was docked.

Dripping wet, Tubbs tried to come up with a clever retort, but failed. He looked at his suit, utterly ruined by the saltwater, and began to laugh.

"It's a good thing the Lieutenant wasn't here to see this one, huh?"

Crockett's tanned face creased as he broke into a grin.

"Yeah, that's for sure. We never did find those drugs we were looking for. Oh well, c'mon, let's find us both some dry clothes and a stiff drink and call it a day."

Tubbs clapped him on the back and said, "Lead on, my man!"

o o o o o o o o o o

Sipping tea from a cup without handles, Martin Castillo sat cross-legged on the tatami mat. A delicate silver medallion rested before him on the low table. The exotic smoke of an unusual incense filled the air, carrying his mind back across time.

He rose gracefully and crossed the room to a wooden chest sitting in the corner. Reverently, he raised the lid and gently lifted out a large book whose leather cover was carved with strange runes.

Reseating himself, he closed his eyes for a moment, then opened the book. He sought a particular passage, running his finger lightly down one page after the next until it came to rest on a name. After a long pause, he reached for the medallion, kissed it lightly, placed it between the pages of aged parchment and closed the book. Smiling, he reached for his cup of tea and sat quietly looking out across his garden as the sun set on the golden coast of Miami.

o o o o o o o o o o

And now, with the sun long since gone to bed here, it's time you do likewise. Fear not! There will be more tales to come of the lovely Menethôlwen, but the telling of this part has quite worn me out for tonight. Return again soon, my friends, and you shall hear the next part of the story, in which our Ten Companions and Bill and the ferrets and the eagle and the Bengal tiger all resume their journey to Mordor, at least for a little while.

(To be continued…)

o o o o o o o o o o

**Notes from the Real Author**:

Aikalerion is an original character introduced by Jastaelf in her story, "Dark Leaf." He appears with her permission, though why she gave me the OK is beyond my ken. Jasta, Soledad (Annaliesse), Tessy, Dísthrainsdotter and Lasselante all appear by their own request for reasons which also quite escape me. To my patient readers, thanks for waiting - I'll try to update sooner on the next chapter. And if I ever mention the idea of doing a cross-over again, I hope someone will send a Balrog to knock sense into me!


	10. 9 Mystery of the Strange Horse and Other

**Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales**

**Author**: Jenn – tolkanonms at yahoo dot com

**Rating**: This tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean rancid or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective).

**Disclaimer**: See the Prologue.

**Feedback**: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

**Archiving**: Edhellond, Gildor's Library. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

**Author's note:** Wow! This is taking a rilly rillly long time 2 finish cuz that test Gil Shalos is rilly tuff. But i'm going 2 finish in just a couple more chappies, i think. i want 2 get it dun b4 PJ finishes his prequel movie "The Habit" cuz i no when it comes out i will haf to see it, like, a hundred x cuz LEGGY IS IN IT! YAYYYYY!! Oh, and i put in a Halloween kind of story -- I hope u like it!!

Remember: SPEW WARNING!!

**Chapter 9 - Mystery of the Strange Horse and Other Assorted Loose Ends**

Good evening, my friends! Autumn is making an attempt to return, and despite the day's warmth, this seems a fine evening to settle in with a little food and drink and a good story, don't you think?

You may have noticed that the magnificent horse, Mysterréd, was not mentioned in the previous chapter. Do not be troubled: he ran on ahead to the Golden Wood to see Lady Galadriel's horse, the one the Elf Queen once rode naked through the streets of Lothlórien or some such thing. At any rate, he was there, along with the ferrets, the eagle, the Bengal tiger and Bill the Pony, all of them ready to resume the Quest.

And that is what they have all done. The Men, the Elf, the Dwarf, the Hobbits and, of course, the Ninni have all headed off to see -- not the Wizard, as Gandalf was already with them -- but various other sorts of folks. We join them as they are telling stories around the cooking fire as the sun has passed its zenith and late afternoon arrives.

o o o o o o o o o o

When the laughter prompted by Pippin's antics had died down, Gimli leaned forward, took a long draw on his pipe and began a tale of the ancient days, when creatures so improbable as to be beyond belief roamed Middle-earth.

"Far to the south in the Land of the Khonodûm," he began, "the great bard Krevettwen tells a tale of strange and ghastly creatures born in the darkest nights of another Age. Some say they were kin to the Barrow-wights. Others say such nightmarish beings could only have emerged from the back end of the mind of someone truly mad, for the Gods would not have allowed such things to be born naturally. Whatever their origins, these hideous, blood-sucking fiends wore long black leather coats and rode about the countryside at night on short, but very fast pig-dogs that were covered in metal and farted loudly."

Merry and Pippin snickered, but Gimli ignored them.

"Most nights, they hunted whatever dared to roam the lands they claimed as their own. But on the night of the full moon, they would hunt their own kind. Mounted on the backs of their short, but fearsome mounts, they would draw long, silver swords and fight to the death over whatever passed as honor among these abominations. So horrific were they that the merest whiff of the strange strawberry scent that forever wafted about them was enough to send even the bravest warrior running for the hills. And so it was, one night, that..."

Elijah Baggins, who had been feeling not quite himself of late, what with fate of the world hanging around his neck and all, wandered off into the woods to get a bit of air. He didn't notice Boromir slipping away to follow him in the late afternoon sun. And Boromir didn't notice Menthôlwen noticing him slipping away. (The rest of the party didn't notice any of this because they were listening intently to the story being told, as you over there in the corner should be doing instead of sneaking a bit of cheese off your neighbor's plate!)

So Elijah, er, Frodo, slipped off into the woods, not looking back until he suddenly heard footsteps behind him. The Man had meant only to talk with him, to offer some words of support and comfort. Yet, when the Ring glinted out between the folds of the Halfling's shirt, a dark wind swept through his warrior's soul. A glinting fire flared in his heart. And the oily tones of the Black Tongue slithered through his mind: "Why should so feeble a creature be entrusted with such a fine weapon? It should have been Gondor's. Gondor should have been mine! It will be mine!" And as these last words hissed from between his gritted teeth, the Man Who Would Not Be King made to grab the Ring.

It was at that moment that Menethôlwen leapt between them, casting a sorrowful look at Boromir. As Frodo fell backwards into the leaves, the Man fell to his knees, shaking his head as if to clear cobwebs from it.

"What have I done? I have betrayed my oath to uphold the honor of Gondor and see the Ring to its destruction! I have failed the Fellowship!"

The Ninni reached out a hand to comfort him, but he turned away, leapt to his feet and ran. Menethôlwen watched him disappear into the woods as Frodo stood up and brushed himself off. Aragorn, alerted by Boromir's strangled cry, appeared at her side.

"What has happened?"

Frodo, his face even more pallid than usual, whispered, "He tried to take the Ring. Boromir -- he tried to take it. He would have killed me."

Stunned, Aragorn looked to Menthôlwen, who was clearly shaken by what she had witnessed.

"I should have known. A nagging feeling of dread crept over me as we sat by the fire just now."

Aragorn nodded sympathetically.

"Many have felt such dread when they recognized that tale."

The Ninni shook her head. "Nay, 'twas not the tale. I should have known! My hope had been that Boromir would transform his love of Gondor into a love of Gondor's King, but in the presence of the evil emanations of the Ring, love cannot always conquer all. If anyone should understand that, it is I..."

By now, the rest of the party had gathered around them. When they heard what had happened, each sought to comfort the Ninni, but she would have none of it.

"We must go in search of him. I fear what his honor may drive him to do."

A blast that could only have come from the Horn of Godor rang through the woods, followed by the crash of metal on metal. Leaving the Hobbits to fend for themselves, Menthôlwen, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf drew their weapons and ran toward the sounds.

Boromir lay on the ground, a half-dozen arrows sticking out of his chest. A hideous Orc, one of the dread Uruk High Guard, stood over him, his bow creaking as he prepared to deliver the fatal shot.

"No!" screamed Menethôlwen. She leapt through the air and beheaded the monstrosity in a single stroke. In her rage, she quickly dispatched the rest of the band of Orcs, then turned to look at Aragorn as he knelt by the mortally wounded Man of Gondor.

Boromir raised a hand to Aragorn's heart: "I would have followed you, my brother, my captain, my king, my everything."

Aragorn's eyes filled with tears as he clasped the younger Man's hand. "I know, _kneed smelleth throng_ (my lover (male)), I know."

And with a smile that turned to a grimace, The Man Who Now Would Not Be Steward Either breathed his last.

Menethôlwen began to weep. "I should have known this would happen. I have read it somewhere, in another time, in another place, in a set of ancient tales written in the distant future."

Legolas cocked his head and gave Aragorn a puzzled look. Aragorn shrugged -- he was too far gone in his own grief to make sense of her words. The Elf nudged the Dwarf, and together with Gandalf, they rounded up the Hobbits and made ready to resume their journey. Aragorn offered to stay with the Ninni, but she urged him on.

"You must continue. The Quest must not fail. I will remain with him, do what must be done, and then catch up to you later."

Aragorn nodded, looked long upon the face of his beloved Boromir once more, then led the rest of the party away.

As quiet fell over the woods again, a single beam of sunlight broke through the treetops, gleaming on the stricken Ninni and setting her stunning hair alight with its shades of gold, silver and copper. As she wept, a ghostly figure appeared behind her. It was Olay, the Valar smith himself, drawn by the anguish of his beloved Olayendil. With a sad, knowing smile, he waved his hand over her, then vanished. Her tears became crystal and silver, and the tinkling sounds they made as they spilled over the lifeless body of Boromir formed a delicate counterpoint to her weeping. The woods fell silent for a moment, and then Boromir drew a shuddering breath and sat up.

"Quiet down, that crying will wake the dead and... Oh."

As Menethôlwen gasped, Boromir looked down and noticed the holes in his leather jerkin, then up at the Ninni. Without a word, he reached for her, his need for the warmth and strength of her life force apparent in his eyes. Understanding his request, she took him in her arms and whispered words of healing and comfort to him in Elvish, And although he did not speak Elvish, the spell of tongues she had cast over him with her tears enabled him to understand her meaning, as well as provide her with much pleasure. Their lovemaking was so tender and deeply moving as to bring them both to tears amidst their rejoicing. (AN: Me 2!! I was, like SOOO sobbing when I rote this part!)

When the sun filtered through the trees the next morning, driving off the mists, they rose and washed themselves in the river, then dressed. Menethôlwen whistled sharply, summoning Shadowfax to carry her and Boromir to the Golden Hall of Meduseld. For that was where the adventures of the rest of their party had led them, and it was in that hall that the fate of Gondor would be decided.

o o o o o o o o o o

But that fate will not be revealed tonight. It is late, and we must all take our rest now. Do come back to visit me soon, and bring something tasty to share!


	11. Strangers in a Strange Land

**Awful Mary-Sue: The Unsold Tales**

**Author**: Jenn – tolkanonms at yahoo dot com

**Rating**: RR. This tale as a whole is rated R (which could mean rancid or ridiculous or reprehensible or rot-gut, depending on your locale and perspective). This particular chapter gets a second R because it takes place in Rohan.

**Disclaimer**: See the Prologue.

**Feedback**: Comments welcome -- constructive if possible, but nasty if you must.

**Archiving**: Edhellond, Gildor's Library. Anyone else: permission required, so I'll know where to send updates.

**Author's note:** OMG! I can't beLEEEEEV I'm riting anuther chappy alredy. But that's how it is with us rilly serious writers, u no: we haf 2 rit. We r, like, totally, um, ya know, um we haf to write. Yeah. N E who, here's smore.

And as always: SPEW WARNING!!

**Chapter 10 - Strangers in a Strange Land**

Well, I see you are eager to hear more of my tales, for you have returned promptly. And what have you to share with me this night? Ah yes, that will do nicely, thank you! Perhaps you'd see your way clear to wet my whistle, as well? Lovely! It is well you have arrive early. Our beloved Ninni has a lot of ground to cover, and therefore, so do we! Let us begin, then, eh?

Last night, we left our heroine, the lovely Menethôlwen, and Boromir, who seems to have recovered rather quickly from his untimely death, galloping across the plains of Rohan. Well, actually, it was Shadowfax who galloped: they were merely (or is that "Meara-ly?") passengers seeking to reach Meduseld, the Golden Hall where sat the once and seemingly not-likely-to-be-future-King of Rohan.

o o o o o o o o o o

The day before, after various adventures, Aragorn, Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli and the Hobbits already had arrived at the Golden Hall. Despite its name and its gaudy exterior, it was actually quite dimly lit inside, the folks of Rohan not being partial to skylights. Glass was hard to come by and not really in keeping with the aesthetics of the people of the Plains of Rohan.

Now, the informed reader will, of course, realize I am using the term "aesthetics" in a very generous manner, for in truth, we are speaking of folks who scarcely understood the use of a good hair comb, let alone the value of light and air and feng shui. The architects of Imladris had never ventured into these ruder parts of Middle-earth, and thus Rohan had never experienced an awakening of any hidden promise it might have had by way of style. Whatever the object found anywhere in Middle-earth, if it was big and shiny or dark and chunky, it was likely to be marked on the underside with the runes signifying, "Made in Rohan."

Ahem! Yes, well, as I was saying, the balance of our party of heroes had found themselves in this dark hall before a sorry scarecrow of a king shrouded in cobwebs who gasped and whispered from his dusty throne like something from beyond the grave. For, alas! the once mighty warrior had fallen under the spell of the wretched Gríma Wormtongue. (And upon hearing a name such as that, I trust we need not go into the details of how such a wicked spell was woven, for I know there are those among you who are a tad squeamish about such encounters.)

The one spot of beauty in the place, the Rose of Rohan, Éowyn, niece of the King, practiced endlessly with her sword, delighting in slicing the air in front of her should Gríma venture too closely in her direction.

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had despaired quickly of trying to reason with the senile old sod on the throne, and none dared venture near the Ice Maiden. They were now sitting around the table, putting back prodigious quantities of Roarhick Red Ale and playing cards with the once-vaunted Riders of Rohan, now grown fat and slow in the darkness of the Great Hall. Even Gandalf's efforts to effect an Istari exorcism had failed miserably: the White Wizard had failed to notice that one of the dogs of Rohan had used his staff in a most indecorous manner.

It was into this sad state of things that Éomer, son of somebody or other once important, but now dead (a common status for royalty of Rohan, due to their stubborn habit of riding into battle at the drop of a horse puck), also big brother to Éowyn, rode in with his company of Riders. Éomer was a good and honorable man, a proud warrior who wanted only for his King to be noble, his sister to be happy and his lands to be free of the varmint that Shadow had unleashed upon it. So, as you might imagine, he was generally quite miserable. For this reason, he spent as much time as he could away from Meduseld, taking out his frustrations on any lowlife of Middle-earth that had the misfortune to cross his path. His conduct had earned him the respect, even the adoration of his cavalry, the A-O Red Riders, who grew bored sitting around the dark hall listening to their wives and children whine all day.

But for now, Éomer had returned. Delighted to find visitors, he waved to his sister and plopped down next to Aragorn and the other remnants of the Ten Walkers to hear news of the world beyond the Plains.

"I know you! I heard about your merry little band --" he paused and glanced at the Hobbits, winced and added, "Uh, sorry, no offense meant, uh, with the "little" thing, you know."

Sam nodded amiably and replied, "None taken."

Relieved, Éomer continued. "So anyway, we were at the Rancid Rooster last week and heard about this global-village-type bunch of folks all gone walkabout together. You're really quite the sensation, you know? Biggest thing to hit these parts since, well, probably the last Age. Now don't tell me, let me guess. You're Aragorn Mortenstern," he said, looking at the Ranger, "and you're an Elf, so you must be Orlando Greenleaf. And you," he added, ducking under the table to look Gimli in the eye, "must be the Dwarf. Welcome! Good to have some new faces around here! Éowyn, sweetie, bring us all some ale, will you? And see what you can scare up in the kitchen. Our guests must be famished - I know I am!"

And so it was that all were far into their cups, bellies full and voices belting out the local folk music, Golden Oldies, when Menethôlwen and Boromir arrived several days later.

o o o o o o o o o o

The sun was rising above the mountain range as Shadowfax's hooves clattered up the rocky dirt path that served as the main thoroughfare. Hearing the slurred songs and merry-making from within, Menethôlwen leapt off the horse's back and ran up the steps, urging Boromir along.

"Hurry! I can sense there is great darkness within the Golden Hall! We may be too late!"

Now, Boromir had spent his fair share of time traveling as an ambassador for Gondor among the people of Rohan, so he failed to see the urgency: it was always dark in the halls of Rohan. But he owed this Ninni his life, so he simply followed her past the guards as she swung open the great doors of the Great Hall.

All looked up, squinting as the bright light of the sun poured into the hall, driving darkness into the farthest corners of the room. Théolden King squeaked and held his hands in front of his face, cowering.

Ignoring the drunken greetings from her fellow Walkers (who, at this point, could not have walked across the road to save their lives), she strode straight and tall toward the throne. Gríma leapt in front of her, meaning to block her path.

"The King is weary. Do not lay more troubles upon an already troubled brow. Be gone, I say! Leave! Bugger off! Get out! Shoo! Buh-bye!"

Menethôlwen stared at him for what seemed an eternity, seeing through the layers of self-deception, the insecurities, the over-weaning outward ambitions that masked the truth of what lay within his heart. She took another step forward, then called his name softly, at the same time giving him a deeply sorrowful look.

"Gríma Who Is Called Wormtongue, look into your heart grown gnarled and twisted by the words of Saruman the Deceiver. You need suffer no longer from the agonies of love unrequited. Let your love flow, like a mountain spring!"

The Hall fell silent as the strange little man stared at the ground for what seemed an eternity. Then, slowly, he looked up and turned his face toward Éowyn. A single tear ran down the long, harsh ridge of his nose and fell to the floor, shattering the silence... and the heart of the White Lady of Rohan. They stared across the room into each other's eyes and in that instant, they knew true love.

And at just that moment, the sun shone fully on the huddled figure of the once and future King of Rohan. The sight of young love blossoming warmed his heart so long held in the icy grasp of Saruman's sorcery. He seemed to grow younger by the moment. His rheumy eyes cleared. His teeth lost their yellow tinge. His hunched spine straightened as he rose from his throne. Surveying the room, he bellowed, "Where is my sword?"

Seeing his liege thus restored, his second rushed to his side and knelt before him, offering his own sword.

The monarch looked down at the warrior, slightly puzzled.

"Who am I, Gambling?"

"You are Théolden King, my lord."

"Oh right, yes, I seem to be a bit forgetful."

"Must be that nasty business about being possessed and all, mi'lord. Perhaps you might seek the counsel of Gandalf Greyhame? I hear he's good with such matters."

"Excellent idea, Gambling! All right, let's go get this battle over with, eh? What are we fighting for again?"

"Well, mi'lord, we're not actually off to battle this moment. There's a few other matters to be taken care of first."

Théolden King pursed his lips for a moment, then snapped his fingers.

"Oh yes, of course, the wedding!" Turning to his niece and his advisor, he beckoned them to him. He laid a hand on each of their heads and gave his blessing to their union.

There was a great feast in the Hall that night. Guests arrived from the outlying areas, bringing food and ale and all sorts of handicrafts stamped "Made in Rohan." The highlight of the evening came when Théolden King rose to toast the new couple and to bestow his wedding gift. There, before the assembly of his people, he gave to the happy couple the stewardship of Meduseld, which, as it turned out, they managed wisely and well for the remainder of their days.

But I am getting ahead of myself, for there are other things, things of great import, that also happened on that joyous night! However, this particular night grows late, and it is high time you were all in bed. So, move along, all of you. I shall continue my tale another evening.


End file.
